


Bend Until Broken

by Aelys_Althea



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Desperation, Eating Disorders, Established Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Indirect Self-Harm, M/M, PLEASE HEED THE TAGS, Perfectionism, Pining, Post-Canon, Self-Esteem Issues, Unreliable Narrator, i don't want anyone to get triggered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-01-28 14:50:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 50,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12609044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelys_Althea/pseuds/Aelys_Althea
Summary: Retirement wasn't a card on the table anymore. Not for Yuuri. It wasn't even in the deck. He'd moved beyond that notion, and skating with Victor, with Yurio, and Phichit, and every other competitor he had befriended over the years made it next to impossible to consider. Yuuri didn't want that. He wanted to keep skating forever.But someone played his hand for him. Someone thrust the card into his fingers, and even if Yuuri discarded it, the memory of how it felt left a phantom chill upon his skin. Yuuri had no intention of retiring, but that moment taught him he would just have to push himself a little harder to make sure it didn't happen.He could do that. It wasn't so hard - was it?





	1. May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this story contains graphic depictions of eating disorders. If you think this might be triggering, please, please, PLEASE don't read. Such descriptions can be really quite damaging some people.
> 
> Disclaimer: Yuri! On Ice is the property of MPAA Studios. I do not own the original work (unfortunately, because it's wonderful), and all rights and appreciation go to the writers and producers of the wonderful show. Thank you!

Two years ago, Yuuri hadn't thought he could sink any lower. His failure at the Grand Prix and then the ensuring downward slide that had followed… He hadn't considered it possible that not only his career but his life could fall apart more dramatically. That low was made even more apparent by the utter high that had come after.

Victor. Yurio. The silver medal. The joy of skating with those he truly cared about and competing at his best.

Then, Yuuri hadn't even considered the possibility of sliding further. That was before he'd found himself on the bathroom floor, hugging the toilet bowel and wavering in an out of dizzying consciousness. That was before it hadn't become an unexpected event but a recurring theme.

His throat hurt. His tongue burned. He tasted of stinging bitterness and congealed mucous. His head throbbed, heartbeat pounding in his temple, and it took more effort than it was worth to open his eyes.

Yuuri's stomach roiled, hitched, and he leant forward slightly until his chin was all but hooked onto the bowel. The smell was thicker, cloying and sickly sweet, but Yuuri barely noticed it. It was a little hard to notice, to care, when everything throbbed. When it all ached, and he felt so, so heavy, and burningly hot, and –

His throat convulsed, and Yuuri swallowed. He smothered a groaned, dropping his forehead onto the porcelain instead. A part of his worried that he'd stained his shirt, but the larger part didn't care. Another part hated himself for slinking in isolation and admittedly self-pity, but the other half mulled and stewed in that feeling until it slogged even more thickly through his veins. Another part again regretted that he wasn't at that moment with his friends, his family, and that feeling…

That feeling won out. Over it all, it was those thoughts and that feeling that urged Yuuri to struggle, to raise his head, and to heave himself from the floor. He all but staggered into the toilet before grasping the wall, wavering on his feet. A deep breath, a herculean struggle to open his eyes, and he was straightening and swallowing the last of the bitterness in his mouth.

Yuuri turned from the bathroom. He flushed once, twice, a third time for good measure. Then he stepped with more casual ease than his slightly wobbly legs deemed feasible. A pause by the faucet , scrubbing his hands and spitting enough not quite enough to wash the taste from his mouth.

But that didn't matter. It was all a performance, and Yuuri had grown very adept at such exhibitions. So good that most of the time no one realised they were watching them at all.

* * *

~|Four Months Earlier|~

* * *

"Yuuri!"

Minako was upon him almost before he passed through the gate. Yuuri shouldn't have been surprised, should have expected it given she'd always been a demonstrative person, but he was still nearly bowled over as she crashed into him.

Stumbling back a step, his bags tumbling to the floor, Yuuri could do little but let himself be held. "Minako-san," he managed in little more than a choked gasp as she squeezed him fiercely. "What are you doing here?"

"You didn't think I'd let you catch a taxi all the way back home, now, did you?" Minako abruptly released him and took half a step back. She planted herself before him before grasping his shoulders instead. "What kind of a welcome home would that be?"

Yuuri smiled. He couldn't help himself, and not only because of Minako's familiar enthusiasm that he hadn't seen for so long, nor because she smiled so widely at him in return. _Welcome home_. It felt like it had been so long, even if it was only a little over a year and a half.

A whole year and a half since he'd last visited Japan… Yuuri would have to make sure if wasn't so long next time.

"Thank you," he said, accepting Minako's offer. "I'll be in your care, then."

If possible, Minako's smile widened further. Dropping her hands from Yuuri's shoulders, she scooped up one of his fallen bags. "Shall we get a move on? Everyone's so excited you're back. I think Yuuko-chan was going to stop by with the triplets at Yu-Topia tonight."

"Minako-san, I can carry that just fine," Yuuri said, reaching for the duffel bag she slung over her shoulder.

Minako flapped his hand aside. "You've got your hands full."

"I can manage with –"

"Don't argue," Minako said, pointing at him primly. "You can carry your own bags every other day of the year, but today is going to be the exception. All right?"

Yuuri could have protested. He wanted to, but Minako was already striding away from him, and the flood of people similarly departing from the airport still crowded around him. Shaking his head, Yuuri accepted the demanding imposition of help that was Minako's version of affection. She hadn't changed, and she likely never would. Yuuri was content for that realisation as he followed her from the airport. It was reassuring, in a way.

Minako was abuzz with chatter and questions as they stuffed Yuuri's bags into the boot of her beetle of a car. Yuuri had almost forgotten how loud she could be. So, so many questions and demands, flung towards him before he'd even climbed into the passenger seat and almost too fast for him to reply.

"Tell me everything about Worlds," she said as they pulled out of the modest car park. "I mean everything."

"Of course I watched all of it live-streamed," she continued on the highway. "Next season I'll make sure I get tickets. But that doesn't matter, you have to tell me anyway."

"Did you get pictures with everyone?" she demanded, all but two-wheeling around a turn. "Christophe, and Phichit, and Otabek – oh, and I hope you got the card I asked you to have autographed. Did you get everyone's signatures?"

"How is Victor?" she asked, then before Yuuri could reply, "and Yurio? Will they be coming to visit as well?"

And then, barely ten minutes into the drive, "I can't believe you went on a Europe holiday and didn't ask me along! Tell me all of it."

Yuuri was used to talking. Victor kept up a comfortable chatter throughout almost every moment of the day that they weren't deeply distracted in the throughs of skating, and Yurio was loud enough for three people when he was off the ice, and sometimes when he was on it, too. Yuuri had almost forgotten Minako had her own brand of loudness; when she demanded answers, it was oftentimes simpler to give them to her than to resist.

So Yuuri told her, and it was only as he spoke that he realised just how much had passed in the year and a half since he'd last been to Japan. He spoke of Saint Petersburg, of the jarring discordance of sinking into the routine of the Russian skating practice and how, despite his utterly dismal attempts at speaking their language, they by and large welcomed him with open arms.

Yuuri told her of his training, his practices, skating _with_ Victor rather than simply as his student and Victor as his coach. Minako stifled herself for a moment at that; something about Yuuri's words must have struck her for just how much he wanted ot speak of it. She let him babble for a time.

He spoke of the Grand Prix that had passed, the Four Continents Competition, Worlds. Of how it had felt to stand upon the podium alongside Victor and Yurio, even the times that the jubilation of their camaraderie was coupled with a tinge of disappointment.

The scores, the triumphs, the losses… Yuuri shared it all, because it was better just to confess everything to Minako rather than have her draw it out of him. And though disappointment had been a companion of sorts some of the time, he spoke with less regret and more fondness for the past year. It had been incredible. Wondrous. Unprecedented. Yuuri had never even conceived the possibility of skating alongside so many of those he now considered friends, and to have Victor beside him too…

"So, off-season now, then?" Minako asked, speaking into the momentary lull that followed Yuuri's words and hung drifted about the car.

Yuuri had turned his gaze out of the passenger window. His attention was caught upon the stretch of beach barely a hundred meters from the road, the spread of pale sand and the white-capped waves that flapped and clapped, the water sucked in with every influx of the tide before being released like an exhaled breath. He'd grown to love Saint Petersburg, and even more so because he had Victor and Yurio for company, but home…

Hasetsu would always be home. Yuuri had missed it. Not even when he closed his eyes, breathed in the sharp air of Russian winter, and listened to the caw of the gulls could he quite forget that, because that air was different. The gulls didn't sound the same. Yuuri knew he would return to Saint Petersburg, because Victor would be there, but for now…

"Yuuri?"

Minako's voice drew his attention back from where it had caught. He glanced towards her. "Sorry?"

Minako shrugged the apology aside. "Just wondering what you were going to do with your down time. Any more travelling, maybe?"

"I think I'm just about all travelled out for a while," Yuuri said, smiling.

"It was only three weeks," Minako said.

"Three weeks and _ten countries_. It was far too many to actually see them properly."

"You should have invited me along. I've wanted to visit Europe again for so long. I wouldn't even have cared that I was crashing your little pretend honeymoon or whatever it was."

"Don't worry," Yuuri said with a little laugh. "Yurio already beat you to it, even if it wasn't his choice to."

Minako hummed as if the thought personally offended her.

Between the end of the World Championships and the beginning of the Opens, the lull in competitions allowed for a brief respite. Many skaters didn't take that respite. Many continued to train with almost the same intensity that drove them in peak season, and, once upon a time, Yuuri might have trained right alongside them.

But that year had been different. Barely a month ago, at the culmination of worlds and the climax of months of hard work, he and Victor had decided: a break was long overdue. They didn't say their choice was influenced by Yurio's sudden need, but…

No one had quite anticipated Yurio would hurt himself at Worlds. He'd pulled through to the finals and even placed, but Yakov had put his foot firmly down with the ultimatum that he would either confine Yurio to his bed even after the two weeks of his post-surgery bed rest had passed, or he could undertake a month practically banned from the ice pursuing his own endeavours.

"Knee injuries shouldn't just be overlooked, and especially not when you have to get an operation to fix it." Yakov had glared at Yurio as though he'd expected such sensible reasoning to be refuted.

Yurio was a spitting cat much of the time, and his natural tenacity and tendency towards aggression hadn't faded as he'd grown into proper, blossoming pubescence. Yuuri was used to his anger, his snide remarks, and his snarky replies. What he hadn't expected was the absolute devastation that had eclipsed Yurio's face and sagged his shoulders until they physically weighted.

Yuuri had seen it, and he knew Victor had, too. Rescuing Yurio from his descent into devastated melancholy was a commitment they silently agreed upon. Regardless of their competitiveness, how fiercely they fought, or how much Yurio would still take any opportunity to criticise Yuuri that he could, Yuuri wanted to help him. Months of company and something distinctly like friendship had paved the way for such a resolution.

"We should do something," Yuuri said to Victor as they stood in the stands, watching Yurio's hunched form more than they did the ice and its wealth of flourishing and posturing figure skaters.

"I agree," Victor replied immediately. He tapping at his chin thoughtfully. "A distraction?"

"I was thinking something like that," Yuuri said, nodding shortly. "Did you have anything in mind?"

"Maybe a holiday?"

"Would he even be up for that?"

"He would if we didn't give him a choice."

Yuuri had almost protested to forcibly dragging Yurio away to 'enjoy himself'. Almost, but not quite, because necessity dictated drastic measures must be taken. And Yurio needed it. He needed them, even if he didn't realise it just yet.

He'd kicked and fought every step of the way, of course, from the brace strapped to his knee and that first trip to the airport. But after a time – somewhere between Paris and their tour of the summer-drenched Swiss Alps – Yuuri thought Yurio's protests had been more lip service than anything profoundly objectionable. He even admitted awe at the sight of the Colosseum in Rome before he recalled himself and retreat into his frowning sulk.

It had been a whirlwind of an adventure, and Yuuri had been so run off his feet that he almost hadn't the time to miss the ice. Between sightseeing, shared drinks, hand-holding wanders with the only person he really wanted to hold hands with, and a haphazard handful of hour slept curled on an uncomfortable bus seat as they travelled between cities, longing had barely been had the chance to take root.

Three weeks, it had been. Three weeks before the stretch of holidays between competition seasons. Yuuri had enjoyed it, had loved and exhausted himself in every minute of it, but he was itching to climb back onto the ice. Slowly, maybe, but definitely.

"I got some of the pictures you and Victor posted – though Yurio's are usually more frequent – but you barely actually called while you were away." Minako shot Yuuri a sidelong glance, pursing her lips. "So spill."

"There's not really all that much to say that you can't pick up from the pictures, Yuuri said.

"Liar. You're hiding something."

" _Iie,_ I'm not." _Except for things that aren't really any of your business_ , Yuuri didn't say. Minako seemed to forget sometimes that, just because he and Victor both had internationally recognised names, it didn't mean that their entire relationship and every quiet, dark and cosy corner of it had to be placed on stark display.

Minako hummed flatly, eyes narrowing. "Keep some of your secrets then, but I see straight through you for others." She suddenly jabbed a hand out and poked the side of his belly. "Partaking of the exotic cuisines, I notice."

Yuuri winced slightly, though the comment wasn't unexpected. "It's off-season."

"I know," Minako said.

"And it _was_ a holiday."

"Hey, I'm not judging, just pointing out an observation. You don't need to get all defensive. Honestly, I half expected all three of you to return as chubby as you were two years ago."

Yuuri winced again. He didn't like to recall his rapid slide into depression that had followed the disaster of the Grand Prix two championships ago. It wasn't so much because Minako was right, and the thought always had him feeling more than a little self-conscious, but because it was a time before and removed from the life he had now. There had been no Victor, which was inconceivably heartbreaking. But on top of that, there had been no Yurio or his competitiveness that had helped to rekindle Yuuri's own. No plans or goals in sight, no knowledge of how to draw himself out of his slump. Yuuri hadn't even considered developing a program, let alone returning to Celestino like a dejected puppy slinking back to its scolding master.

This time was different, though. Yuuri was happy, and a hint of holiday weight gain wasn't of any real concern. Or not much, anyway, when Yuuri didn't let himself consider it. Besides, he had time to work himself back up into shape. Championships were still months away.

"I'm pretty sure Victor could eat his way through most of Europe and still be exactly the same as he always is," Yuuri said, brushing aside Minako's words with a nonchalance that he almost felt.

"Probably," Minako agreed. "Where is he, by the way? I know you said on the phone that he wasn't coming with you straight away, but…"

"He had to return to Saint Petersburg for a couple of weeks," Yuuri said, turning his gaze back out the window as they arced over a bridge. "Yakov reminded him that it was Yurio who was the injured one, not him, so he should pull his weight as a veteran skater and help out some of the younger kids."

"Exhibitions?" Minako asked.

"Probably," Yuuri murmured. Then he fell silent. It was silly of him, maybe, to be pining for Victor when he'd seen him only days before, but after waking up alongside him, spending almost every day with him, and simply _being_ with him for so long, that span suddenly yawned behind him. It left a hollow space in his chest.

"I can't wait till he gets here," he found himself saying, only to yelp a moment later as Minako jabbed him once more. "What was that for?"

"You're super in love, aren't you?" she said, eyeballing him with concerning attentiveness given the speed at which she wove through the traffic.

Yuuri frowned, even as he felt his cheeks warm slightly. "Yes. So what?"

"Nothing, nothing." Minako was smiling as she blessedly turned her gaze forward once more. She shrugged off the subject a moment later, however. "Yuuri, do you mind if we stop by the bar on the way over? Just for a little bit. I have to make sure the kid I've got on hasn't burnt the place down."

"Are they a new employee?" Yuuri asked, propping his elbow on the edge of the door and leaning his cheek into his hand. "What happened to Nakamura-chan?"

Minako wrinkled her nose. "She moved to the city. Really, how could she leave me like this? I have enough trouble juggling the studio single-handedly without her leaving me alone with the bar."

"Maybe you should hire more dance teachers?"

"Never!"

Yuuri smiled, turning his gaze once more out the window. Of course he didn't mind, and not only because he was more than happy to accompany Minako anywhere after she'd done him the favour of picking him up. The drive allowed just a little more time to drink in the sedate, homely pace of Hasetsu as it trickled past.

Minako was out of the car almost before she'd thrown it into park when they drew to a stop outside of Kachu Snack Bar. Yuuri followed more slowly, peering up at the little building he hadn't seen in months where it was set between equally small, sedate stores along what could almost be called the main street of Hasetsu. It wasn't a large structure, and mid-afternoon on a weekday wasn't the busiest of hours for sales, but even as he watched, a man ducked inside on Minako's tail, a woman departing a moment later.

Minako was nowhere in sight when Yuuri followed, pausing just inside the doorway. The spread of minimal seats, the empty bar, the smell of a heated lunch and something distinctly tangy – it was all achingly familiar, and Yuuri almost couldn't help but trail his fingers along the panelling on the wall as he drifted towards the bar. A handful of customers sat in comfortable silence, or murmuring to their companions, and barely a one spared Yuuri a glance.

Or at least none but one in particular.

"'Ey, Yuuri-kun? Is that you? I didn't expect to see you!"

Yuuri glanced over his shoulder at his name and immediately offered a smile to Mr Hamada where he sat a table from the bar. The middle-aged man, a neighbour of Yuuri's parents' onsen, was familiar himself, though more for his frequent visitation to Minako's. Yuuri should have almost expected his presence.

"Hamada-san," Yuuri said, skirting the tables towards him. He tipped his head slightly in greeting. "How are you?"

"Good, good!" Mr Hamada said, smiling wide enough that happy wrinkles appeared around his lips. He flapped the magazine in his hand towards Yuuri in a kind of wave. "I didn't expect to see you around. Last I heard you were across the other side of the world."

"Maybe not quite so far as that," Yuuri said with a polite little laugh. "But of a sort. I'm back for a little while, though. I guess I've just been a little homesick?"

"You're not returning for good, then?"

Yuuri opened his mouth to reply but was silenced as Minako's voice rung briefly and loudly from the bar's back room. He and Hamada both – and a handful of other customers – glanced towards the half-closed door as what could have been chastisement as much as joking good-humour dampened into a murmur once more. After a moment, Yuuri turned back to Mr Hamada. "Sorry?"

Mr Hamada waved the magazine once more. "From what I read, I couldn't help but think you might have said something."

For a moment, Yuuri couldn't comprehend what Mr Hamada was talking about. Then his gaze dropped to the magazine itself and he recognised it for what it was.

Ice-skating wasn't a widely acclaimed sport in a lot of cities, but in Hasetsu, it had almost become so. The Nishigori ice castle had become a cultural hotspot, and reportedly even more so after the events of years before. Three internationally ranked skaters in the one place was apparently cause enough to strike near-obsession into the hearts of many of Hasetsu's residents.

Or so Yuuko had told him. Yuuri hadn't quite seen evidence of it himself.

Just as he hadn't really seen evidence of what Yuuko had similarly deemed his 'fans'. Yuuri would avoid public appearances outside of competitions whenever he could, and Minako chided him that such avoidance was likely why he saw so little of those fans. But people like Mr Hamada, like the visitors to the Katsuki onsen and the occasional passer-by in the street – they recognised Yuuri and complimented his efforts. Yuuri didn't think himself so much cheered by fans as he was overwhelmingly supported by many of his neighbours.

It put a lot of pressure on him – or it had when he'd lived in Hasetsu. Yuuri still couldn't decide it that pressure had been a good thing or not. He supposed it _had_ helped to push him to where he was now, hadn't it?

Minako's bar routinely cycled through sports magazines and newspaper articles with an exaggerated focus on figure skating. It seemed almost more of an interest to her than dancing was, sometimes; she'd thoroughly climbed aboard the skating-train in the past years, and her company at Yuuri's competitions stood testament to that. But even so, the presence of such magazines wouldn't be half as relevant if those in the bar didn't pick them up and understand just what the content spoke of.

Mr Hamada wasn't an avid attendant of the sport, Yuuri knew, but he apparently kept up with the news. More, even, than Yuuri had in his brief holidaying absence. At Mr Hamada's words, Yuuri frowned and accepted the offered magazine. "Sorry, I don't know what you're talking about."

"No need to apologise, Yuuri-kun," Mr Hamada said brightly, folding his hands on the edge of his half-finished plate. "I'm only a curious man. You'd be the first to tell us if you were thinking of retirement, wouldn't you? Better than hearing about it in the papers."

Yuuri glanced up from the glossy cover of the magazine and met Mr Hamada's gaze. Retiring? Since when? He hadn't said anything about retiring, and despite the urge to do so years before, he was more than content where he was at the present. Yuuri might not be consistently at the very top of the international ladder, but the rivalry he shared with his fellow skaters – with Victor specifically, and Yurio, and Phichit – was more than incentive to keep trying. To keep skating, and pushing himself, and…

"I'm sorry, Hamada-san, I'm not quite sure what you're talking about."

Mr Hamada's smile faded slightly into a wrinkled frown. "No need to apologise," he said. "I only thought… On page ten, there's an article, you know. I thought it seemed… you really didn't say anything?"

Frowning himself, Yuuri dropped his gaze back down to the magazine. _International Figure Skating_ was a primary resource found in Minako's bar, so he wasn't surprised to see it. He hadn't picked up a copy in weeks, however. Sightseeing had largely overwhelmed the urge to do so.

Flicking through the pages with Mr Hamada watching in frowning attentiveness, Yuuri paused on the spread of a picture he hadn't seen before. A slight tightness clenched his gut, seeming to abruptly parch his throat; no matter how many times he saw a photograph of himself, he would never find it a comfortable experience. Especially not when the picture was of a moment he hadn't even realised he stood before the lens of a camera.

"When was this…?" Yuuri murmured, more to himself than to Mr Hamada. He trailed off as his gaze fell to the headline.

_THE END OR A NEW BEGINNING?_

_Caught in the midst of holidaying, international figure skaters and acclaimed couple Victor Nikiforov and Yuuri Katsuki appear nothing if not revelling in their post-championship retreat. But is it more than simply a break? Is this the beginning of the end of the road for one particular skater?_

Yuuri's gaze flickered to the image once more. Holidaying. They'd been holidaying, and after a moment of studying Victor where he'd been caught in the middle of an outburst of laughter, Yuuri recognised the streets of Florence. And Yuuri, at Victor's side…

Yuuri had truly never liked looking at pictures of himself. Never. He could be proud of his skating, his accomplishments, and even feel a further upwelling of pride when he read compliments of his performances and favourable critiques following a performance. But this? This was nothing short of horrible. The picture of himself… and the article that accompanied it. The speculations.

Minako's bar was a comfortable, homely abode, and as much for its familiarity as anything. The people, the smells, the shadowed warmth – Yuuri had many good memories of the bar and his friendship with Minako that had unfolded within it. But at that moment, any comfort faded before the words on the page before him.

_…taking a break…_

_…appears distinctly removed…_

_… letting himself go?_

Yuuri hated the picture. He hated it, even if he loved it because Victor was smiling, and laughing, and looked _happy._ He hated it because, to look at it… it might be true. Yuuri wasn't at his fittest at the present. Minako had teased him good-naturedly, but there had been truth to her words. In the picture, his hair and fringe overlong, the plain, square glasses that he always wore when off the ice, the casual simplicity of his clothes that weren't meant to be flattering…

Letting himself… go?

Yuuri hadn't looked at the papers or the magazines last time he'd withdrawn from the world in slinking regret for his failures. He hadn't been able to manage it because he'd known what would be said. That he'd reached his peak and it was time for him to quit while he was still even a little ahead. That he was making a scene, a disaster of himself. That accepting defeat was far better than having it thrust upon him.

But this was somehow different. Somehow worse, and not only because Yuuri did read it this time. It was worse because Yuuri _wasn't_ stopping. He didn't want to, had no intention to, but the article, the speculation…

Letting… himself… go?

_At nearly thirty years old, Nikiforov shows remarkable persistence in continuing with his own career, and as yet hasn't spoken to the effect of ceasing his participation in the upcoming championships. Can the same be said for Katsuki? With retirement still in the memories of fans from barely two years ago, and with recent sightings to the effect, it is possible that Katsuki –_

The magazine was snatched from his hands. Yuuri was so lost in his stupefied thoughts, so distracted by the sickening twist in his belly and the echo of the journalist's words printed in precise lines, that it took him a moment to properly realise it had been taken from him. When he glanced up, it was to see Minako at his side, turned towards Mr Hamada with hands propped on hips and the magazine a scrunched tube in her fist.

"… did I say about this?" she was scolding him more presumptuously than anyone besides Minako would be able to get away with. "It's all drivel, and one person's opinions, and it's a _stupid_ opinion." Then she was spinning her attention away from a stunned Mr Hamada and towards Yuuri. Her eyes narrowed, though even in his stupor, Yuuri realised it wasn't with any kind of anger towards him.

"I'll not hear of you taking this to heart, Yuuri," Minako all but snapped.

Yuuri blinked. He glanced vaguely over her shoulder to the door to the back room, to where a younger man had appeared and was already making about the bar in something of a hasty frenzy. The new worker? "Have you finished talking to him?" Yuuri asked, hearing his words like a hollow echo.

Minako stared at him. Her lips thinned and Yuuri heard the magazine squeak in protest as she squeezed it harder. "Yuuri. I know you. Don't think about this."

"He didn't make a mess of things, did he?" Yuuri said, unable to properly reply to her words and barely hearing his own words.

"Yuuri –"

"I'd say he's doing a pretty good job considering he's new and practically by himself. How long did you say you've had him for?"

Minako stared at him for a long moment more. Then, with a glance over her shoulder towards the boy and the bar, she grabbed Yuuri's wrist and was dragging him after her from the bar once more. The door hadn't even fully swung closed behind them before she was spinning once more and planting her hands on his shoulders.

"Enough of this," she said bluntly. "You are _not_ going to listen to the ravings and speculations of a journalist who doesn't matter. Let them think what they'll think, and show them you can do better."

Yuuri glanced sidelong down to the magazine, still clutched in Minako's hand and now pinned against his shoulder. He shrugged beneath her fingers, swallowing the thickness welling in his throat. "It's okay," he said. "I don't really mind. They got it wrong, anyway."

Minako nodded firmly. "Too right they did."

"I'm not retiring."

"You'd better not be after last year's efforts." Minako's expression grew fierce. "These people seem to think that a good run should precede a disaster."

"A disaster?" Yuuri asked. Was that what they'd speculated in that article? That after his 'good run' last year he would flounder in the one to follow? Try as he might, Yuuri couldn't force the printed words from his mind.

Retirement…

Letting himself go…

Know when to quit…

Yuuri didn't want to believe it, and none of it truly mattered. Victor had taught him that, had _shown_ him that. Victor had all but mastered being able to shrug off the comments of the press and the reporters hounding on his heels. A few years of extra practice in the limelight seemed to put him leaps and bounds ahead of Yuuri's capabilities to the effect.

Or maybe Yuuri was just incompetent. Maybe he just couldn't handle it. He'd never dealt well with pressure, and even if it was only one journalist's speculations… Surely they weren't the _only_ one to be thinking so.

"I don't want to hear this has gotten to you, Yuuri," Minako said, her voice low and hard, dragging Yuuri's attention from the magazine back towards her. "All right?"

Yuuri smiled, and he hoped it looked more sincere than it felt. " _Un_."

"In fact, I don't think you should read any of these stupid magazines. I don't even know why I still buy them."

"If you say so."

"And if you do want to retire –" She cut herself off, and her brow crumpled. "I know you're not, but you'd tell me if you were, wouldn't you?"

It was a struggle not to flinch. Almost as much of a struggle not to slip from beneath Minako's hands and shrink away from her. She had confidence in him, Yuuri knew, and he wouldn't doubt her support for a second – but she wondered too? She wondered if he was taking a break, a holiday, more of the cessation variety than as a pause?

That fact hit Yuuri almost harder than the article did.

But he smothered the flinch, and he didn't take withdraw from Minako. Instead, Yuuri forced his smile wider and shrugged once more. "Of course I would. But it's not going to happen. Not yet, and hopefully not for a long time." Reaching a hand up, he clasped Minako's fingers beneath his own. "Don't worry so much. I'm not going to take just one person's words to heart. I promise."

For a beat, Minako continued to stare at him dubiously. Then her frown cracked and she smiled with something like triumph. "Too right you won't," she said. Taking a step backwards, she tugged Yuuri after her and towards her car once more. "Come on. Let's head home. I'm sure everyone's wondering where I've abducted you to."

Yuuri laughed alongside Minako as she returned to her vibrant chatter once more, but he didn't quite feel it. And when she scrunched the magazine into a ball and lobbed it into the back seat of her car before climbing into the front, it took an effort for Yuuri to shake himself from staring at the discarded bundle and follow her lead.

If he told himself that a passing word didn't hurt so much, then maybe he might just believe it.

* * *

The welcome home wasn't quite explosive, nor overly loud or extensive – but then, Yuuri hadn't expected it to be.

The Nishigori's were in attendance, and Yuuri couldn't help but exclaim over how big the girls had grown in his absence. The pictures Yuuko had sent him didn't do them justice.

Mari descended from upstairs where she still spent so much of her time, and he spared a moment or two in conversation with her, catching up in the minimal manner they always shared. Yuuri and Mari had never spoken much, but that didn't matter; it was comfortable to simply be at her side.

His father bubbled with greeting, and his mother clasped his hand and smiled fondly at him. Minako was a whirlwind of excitable activity, and it was she who cracked out the drinks at an earlier hour than Yuuri thought entirely seemly.

He didn't partake. Yuuri wasn't comfortable in the full throughs of alcohol after his last few disastrous experiences, had never held his liquor adeptly, but more than that…

"Will you be home for long?" his mother asked in her quiet voice when there was a brief moment of diverted attention. Axel, Lutz, and Loop were exclaiming in an overloud debate with Yuuko, of which Yuuri was fairly sure the girls were winning for their expert cohesive group skills, and most of the room was otherwise attending to the battle of wits.

Yuuri leant towards his mother to murmur into her ear rather than call attention to them with an audible reply. "I don't know. Probably just for the off-season, if that's okay."

His mother beamed. She was a small woman, plump, and Yuuri had always seen her as the epitome of maternity. He'd always felt himself ease in her company, and the knot that had taken up residence in his gut that afternoon seemed to unravel just a little for it.

"You can stay as long as you'd like," she said. She reached a hand towards him to pat his fingers once more. "We're so happy to have you home."

"Thank you," Yuuri murmured.

"We watched all of your competitions, you know?"

"You did?" Yuuri felt his cheeks warm with a mixture of embarrassment and delight. His parents still couldn't quite grasp the intricacies of figure skating, but that they took the time to watch meant more than he could ever say.

His mother nodded vigorously. "Of course! We're very proud of you. I've been waiting for you to come home to serve up a feast for us all in celebration. How does _katsudon_ sound for tonight, hm?"

It sounded good. Of course it did, and Yuuri's mother certainly knew; it had always been his favourite. But for the first time, Yuuri didn't immediately leap upon the suggestion with open gratitude. He thought of Minako's teasing jab in the car, of the time he'd spent holidaying, of the words 'letting himself go' and 'retirement', and a scrunched magazine all but forgotten on the back seat of a car.

Yuuri swallowed that tightness that had wrapped around his throat once more. A touch of guilt niggled at him, but it wasn't quite enough to smother his words. "Ah… I'm actually thinking of starting my training again. Getting back on track, you know?"

Yuuri's mother blinked, her eyebrows rising in confused surprise. "Back on track? Already? Haven't the championships finished for the year?"

For a handful of months, they would indeed taper off to next to nothing – or at least those Yuuri would participate in. But he couldn't quite bring himself to consider delaying, not with the discomfort that seemed to weigh heavily upon him while simultaneously setting an itching jitteriness into his limbs.

He shook his head slightly. "It's never too early to start training again. I've got to start early if I hope to beat Victor and Yurio, don't I?"

Yuuri spoke as if in jest, and his mother's face softened as though she heard it as much. She chuckled quietly to the sound of Yuuko's rising voice and a retaliating protest of, "But you never let us stay up late and we still do!" from the triplets.

"I suppose no _katsudon_ for a while, then?" his mother asked.

Guilt flared once more, because his mother's cooking was her gesture of love. Most of the time, Yuuri would cave before it. Most of the time – but not this time. "Don't let it stop you, please," he said fluttering a placating hand. "I'm sure everyone else would love some for the feast."

It seemed Yuuri's words eased whatever remaining discomfort his mother possessed. With a short nod, a bright smile, and another pat of his hand, she shifted her attention back to where Nishigori had scooped up two of his daughters under his arms while the third danced just out of reach. Yuuko was scolding them all, Minako was smirking into a bottle, Yuuri's father watched on with blissful contentedness, and Mari only shook her head with a roll of her eyes.

They were comfortable, all of them. Happy. Yuuri only wished he felt a little the same way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading the first chapter! I hope you enjoyed it, and I've already got the second one lined up to post in (hopefully) a few days. If you did, or you have anything you'd like to say, please leave a comment and let me know your thoughts. Thank you!


	2. June

Yuuri was breathing heavily as he let himself through the sliding front door of the onsen. The air was thick and heavy, the weight of summer cloying like a gossamer sheet. Yuuri could feel his shirt sticking to his back, and the discomforting heat of his feet was only intensified by the sand that had managed to slip inside his socks.

Morning runs had become regular for him. The only problem was that the beach never quite seemed long enough, even if it did have Yuuri panting by the time he rose from the sand onto the footpath once more.

Padding through the house, socked feet thudding quietly on the wooden floors, Yuuri took himself to the indoor bathroom. He'd been scolded in the past for slinking into the guest area sweaty from a workout – or as scolded as either of his parents ever managed.

It was early, though, just scraping past nine o'clock. Most guests had barely made it down to breakfast, let alone sought out the baths. Yuuri immersed himself in the overheated downpour that almost scored his skin from his bones, bowing his head beneath the onslaught, and though the summer weather was far from conducive to such heat, it felt good. Really good.

The aching in Yuuri's muscles persisted throughout the treatment, but it was less intense than it had been two weeks ago. The running had become easier, the struggle to commit himself to the cycle of his old gym routine less of a death match, and the hours he'd begun to put in at the skate rink after it closed were gradually becoming less of a challenge against frustration and more of a slip back into consistency.

It was a little horrifying at first. Horrible, because not even a month had passed since Yuuri had taken a break from training and joined Victor and Yurio on a sight-seeing excursion. Horrifying, because his fitness had so markedly deteriorated. And most horrifying because it had been noticed, and a whole speculative article had been published on it.

That was the worst part. And moment that Yuuri questioned why in the world he would drag himself from bed at barely seven in the morning in his off-season evaporated when he recalled the magazine, the article, the picture, even when the reminder of Minako's accompanying protective reprimand arose alongside it.

Now wasn't so bad. It had gotten better. Sinking beneath the heat of the showers and letting it chew away his body's protestations, Yuuri felt almost back to normal again. Almost. Just not quite enough to slow his headlong pace.

Climbing from the showers, Yuuri wrapped himself in a robe and ducked through the empty hallways towards his room. Attached to the onsen by a network of doors and more hallways, the staff sign usually sufficed to stave off curious guests. Yuuri was grateful for that; he'd never been partial to the crowds and the noise that often flooded the bathhouse.

His room was dark when he entered, just as he'd left it. Blankets strewn, shoes propped just outside the cupboard as he shouldn't have abandoned them, his sleepwear stacked neatly upon the nightstand. Yuuri scrubbed a towel over his head as he made his way to his cupboard and plucked out new gym gear; showering so early in the morning when he would be running to the gym only hours later, or down to Minako's studio, or to the ice-rink, might be irrational, but…

 _It's so hot,_ Yuuri thought, swiping what was less shower water and more the pinpricks of sweat from forehead. _This was a bad time to have to get back in shape_.

But he would. He _would_. Yuuri wasn't letting himself go, and he'd be damned if an article urged him to accept the inevitable fate of all figure skaters ahead of his time. Never.

The buzz of his phone drew Yuuri's attention over his shoulder just as he was poking his head through his shirt. He snatched it up from the nightstand, caught a glimpse of the name that presented itself, and was smiling even before he received the video call.

"Phichit!" He dropped onto his bed, flopping onto his back and raising his phone above him.

Phichit smiled sleepily through the screen. He looked to be in his own bed, a pillow wedged beneath one cheek, and his eyes were still blurry with drowsiness.

"Hey, Yuuri," he said, fluttering the fingers of his free hand in a wave. "Good morning."

Slipping back into English was as fluid as it had been to fall headfirst back into using Japanese. Yuuri curled onto his side, propping his arm under his head. "Have you just woken up?"

"I have." Phichit yawned expansively, as if to punctuate his words. "You don't look like you have, though."

"No."

"Running?"

" _Un_."

"Weird." Phichit scrubbed at one eye. "Why you're doing that to yourself I have no idea. Off-season is supposed to be the time for sleep-ins and afternoon naps."

Yuuri laughed into the crease of his elbow. "You're the one who called me so early. It's only – what, seven o'clock where you are?"

"I had no choice," Phichit said around another yawn. "And it's your fault."

"My fault?"

"You're the one who all but abandons his phone during the day. If I'm actually going to talk to you, it has to be before you disappear off to wherever you go." Phichit pursed his lips in what wasn't quite a pout, but only because Phichit wasn't the kind of person who really pouted. "How do you live without your phone for so many hours?"

"There's not really that many people I have to contact," Yuuri said, hitching his shoulder to his ear in a shrug.

That much was true. He had Phichit, who had retreated back to his home city of Bangkok after his most recent trip down World's lane. There was Yurio, who didn't usually directly contact Yuuri anyway; they're animosity had long ago thawed, but Yurio seemed adamant about maintain his 'too cool to be friends with anyone' façade. Yuuri and Victor had discussed it briefly and attributed it to hormones. Mostly.

There were his family, though his parents had never been particularly adept at navigating phones, and he didn't have that kind of relationship with Mari. Yuuko was an occasional conversation partner, though she worked most days and was committed enough to avoid messaging during those hours. Minako usually had something to say, too, but her words rarely warranted a reply.

And there was Victor.

Yuuri spoke to Victor every day. He couldn't _not_. Being so far apart – for it really did feel a whole universe away rather than a single-stop flight – ached in a manner entirely different to the disgruntled grumbling or tired muscles, or the unshakeable heaviness that still clung to Yuuri's shoulders after his first day back home.

To Victor, Yuuri spoke daily.

To Victor, he messaged whenever a thought crossed his mind that he longed to share – which wasn't so often that he worried he was being annoying, but less frequent than Victor did the same to him.

To Victor, Yuuri would sent phots of the beach, or the cluttered roads, or the baths – empty, naturally, because he did have enough of a mind to maintain the much-needed privacy of the guests – and Victor would send his own in return. And each night, he would send a final message with the words, "When are you coming?"

Victor would always reply in the same way. "As soon as I can."

At two weeks, 'soon' couldn't be soon enough, in Yuuri's opinion.

Other than Victor, however, Phichit was Yuuri's primary correspondent. He missed his friend dearly; the prospect of taking up his offer of visiting Thailand grew more and more tempting with each call. Or it had been before Yuuri had resumed his training. Funny, how training seemed to take up both time and the headspace for lonely pining.

"You don't have many people to contact because you don't want to talk to them, I think," Phichit replied, propping his pillow up slightly. "I think a lot of the skaters from Worlds would be super excited to chat with you."

Yuuri winced. "I'd be way too nervous to contact them."

"You should just do it! I have a whole heap of their numbers, you know. And I can link you their IG accounts if you don't follow them."

"I do," Yuuri admitted, because he wasn't so backwards as to not have an interest in his competitors and who they were off the ice, to.

"Really?" Phichit said a little teasingly. Then he shrugged that teasing aside. "You should chat to Leo. He's always really friendly."

"I know," Yuuri said. He remembered Leo from only months before, and Phichit was right on that account.

"Sara's always pretty nice too, you know, when her brother isn't hanging over her shoulder."

"I'd be too embarrassed to talk to her, I think."

Phichit grinned. "Why? Because she's pretty? Should I tell Victor to be worried?"

Yuuri winced again. "Please don't. He'll be on my back about it for _ever_."

"So he really is he the jealous type?"

"Not really," Yuuri said with another shrug, because Victor wasn't. Not truly. Well, except for that one time – but that was an outlier. It didn't count. _Definitely_ didn't. "He just… I don't know, teases me about that sort of thing sometimes."

"I think that's probably his jealousy doing the teasing."

"I don't think so."

"But _I_ do, and as an outside observer, my opinion is more objective."

Shaking his head, Yuuri couldn't help but smile. He knew Phichit was wrong, because Yuuri and Victor had an understanding – primarily that Yuuri hadn't had a lover before, and he was surely unlikely to pick up another the moment he was actually settled with someone. Victor was simply a happy-go-lucky kind of person. He had _fun_. That was all the teasing and questioning was.

Definitely. Yuuri was almost sure of it.

"What's up anyway, Phichit?" he asked, casting the subject aside. "Did you need to ask me something?"

Phichit adopted his not-pout once more. "What, so I need a reason to call you?"

"Most people do."

"Hm. I guess I'm not 'most people', then?"

As it turned out, Phichit didn't have all that much of a reason to call. Yuuri wasn't wholly surprised by that, even though he'd asked. It was good to simply talk to his friend, though, even if it didn't have much of an encompassing purpose. They hadn't seen one another in weeks.

After a time, however, Yuuri had to hang up. He _had_ to. He was getting back into routine, and missing an hour or two was a slippery slope down to missing more.

"I've got to go," he said, speaking into a momentary lull in the conversation. Phichit was smiling contentedly on the tail end of his words about Celestino, and Yuuri couldn't help but feel fondly nostalgic at the memory of their training together years before. But… priorities. He had priorities he had to abide by, at least for the moment.

Phichit propped himself up slightly at Yuuri's words, frowning. "Where to? Not the gym."

"You know it is. I've already told you my regime."

Phichit pulled a face. " _Blergh_. What happened to actually enjoying your down time?"

"I am," Yuuri said. "I'm just training as well."

"You can't train _and_ enjoy yourself."

"If anyone heard you talk, Phichit, they might think you actually dislike skating."

Phichit grinned. "Don't say something so scary," he said, and Yuuri joined him as he broke into laughter. It really was a ridiculous notion.

"I won't keep you, then," Phichit finally said with a sigh. "Just make sure you have your rest days and your breaks and all that."

"Don't worry," Yuuri replied. "I'm more than capable of taking care of myself."

"Hm." Phichit's smile grew crooked. "I know. Otherwise I'd be on the next plane to Japan to come and pick you up."

"You're more than welcome any time. You haven't visited yet, even though you said you would."

"Like you said you'd visit Bangkok."

"True. Guess we both have ends of the deal to keep up."

"Yeah…" Phichit trailed off, and his smile faded with it. When he shifted again, peering through the camera across thousands of miles, his gaze was intent. "I mean it though, Yuuri. Don't work too hard."

"I'm fine," Yuuri said.

"Take it easy from time to time."

" _You_ don't."

"I take it easier than you, usually."

"That's because you don't need to work so hard to be practically perfect."

Phichit's intent stare crinkled into a frown. "What?"

Yuuri ducked his chin, abruptly embarrassed to have spoken. He hadn't meant to sound resentful, for he wasn't. It was simply that he wasn't oblivious to the fact that his was less naturally competent than most of his friends and competitors. It hurt a little to be reminded of it. "Nothing," he said.

"You don't…? Yuuri, you didn't mean –"

"It's nothing, Phichit. Sorry, I've got to go."

"Yuuri," Phichit said with emphasis, pushing himself up to sitting for the first time in their conversation. "What's going on?"

"Going on?" Yuuri blinked. "Nothing. Why?"

Phichit's frown deepened. "Just… where's this lack of confidence come from? I mean, I know you never have much of it anyway, but this is…"

"It's nothing, Phichit. Really. No need to be worried."

But Phichit was shaking his head as though he hadn't even heard him. "You really don't realise what kind of a skater you are, do you? It's incredible."

Yuuri wasn't sure what he was referring to specifically – his incredible and supposed obliviousness? – but he didn't question it further. Phichit was always supportive, always kind, even when he teased. Yuuri shouldn't be incidentally leaning on him to prop up his wounded ego.

 _I can prove to the world that I'm capable by myself,_ he thought, a touch fiercely, as he ended the video call and lowered his phone onto his belly. _I might not be as gifted as every other skater out there, but I'll push myself until I get there._

It had worked for him before. Yuuri had poured his everything into his figure skating, and it _had_ paid off. He didn't think himself exceptional or extraordinary, but what he did have was the sheer, aching desire to do his best. All it took was everything he had.

Climbing from his bed, Yuuri snatched up his shoes and descended from his room. He was running again almost before he'd stepped out the front door.

* * *

Dizziness was a challenge that could be overcome with enough practice. Or, more correctly, it could be navigated and ploughed through with the right level of commitment and determination.

Yuuri had learnt that much in his years of practicing ballet. To fall prey to dizziness, to drop his gaze from their focal point and waver mid-turn, was a risk that the inattentive faced. But practice? Enough practice and it became second nature to dance his way around it like the steps of an intricate performance.

Søren Bebe's music rippled through the air on the melodious wings of an orchestra. It painted a picture across the empty studio, rebounding off mirror-lined walls and twisting like pirouetting dancers. Minako had taken to the Scandanavian composer of late, or so Yuuri had discovered in the past weeks that he'd been visiting her studio once more. He'd grown familiar with the lilting melodies, the slow drawls, and the upbeat rhythms.

Usually, Yuuri came after Minako's classes were scheduled. Or before those classes. Or in between, if he could manage. As with at the ice castle, Yuuri always felt uneasy performing before others, even in practice. Competitions were one thing, but this? If Yuuri didn't _have_ to dance or skate before an audience, he preferably wouldn't.

As it was, he'd thought himself alone in the studio with Minako seeing her pupils off at the end of their lesson. Sweat dribbled down his brow and his calves burned from his morning work out as much as the persistent pursuit of point work his dancing practice demanded. Flowing through forms, Yuuri watched his reflection, watched the extensions of his own arms and legs, and corrected himself where he saw.

That leg could be straighter. He would fix that.

Why did his toe always curl at the last second when he turned a pirouette on his left leg? And how had he never noticed it before? He would fix that, too.

A slight bend in an arm that shouldn't be there, and then a fluid addition of one where it _should_ be. A straightening of posture that had slumped slightly with time away from the studio, and the automatic correction of balance that had grown rusty. Minute changes, steadying himself, allowing a little give so that he could take more moments later.

 _I shouldn't have stopped practicing so much_ , Yuuri chided himself as he caught himself before falling out of a turn. _Even if taking a break_ is _healthy, that journalist got one thing right: I can't afford to grow lax, or else I'll just be pushed even further behind everyone._

It didn't matter that he'd won competitions. If didn't matter that he was internationally ranked. A fall from grace could happen faster than he could blink, and Yuuri knew that, unlike Victor, unlike Yurio, he was that much closer to the brink. It would happen more easily for him.

The world knew. The world speculated about that fall. Yuuri would just have to try harder to prove them all wrong.

Blinking through the blurriness of sweat, Yuuri paused with a lull in the music, caught himself, then rose _en pointe_ with arms raised in fourth as it picked up once more. Only to stutter to a stop as the music abruptly cut off. Glancing over his shoulder, Yuuri frowned questioningly.

Minako stood alongside the radio. Her arms were folded, her brow furrowed, and she stared at his reflection rather than Yuuri himself as though to emphasis her disapproval. Disapproval of what, Yuuri didn't know, but he was almost too scared to ask.

"Minako-san?" he asked tentatively, dropping onto his heels. Or he tried to ask; his breath was coming short, almost gasping, and he hadn't realised until he'd paused just how ragged it had become.

"You've been going for a whole hour, Yuuri," was all Minako said, staring intently at his reflection.

Yuuri blinked. An hour? It certainly hadn't felt so long. But then, much as happened when skating, Yuuri often found himself prone to becoming lost in the music and the dancing. Sometimes it was a struggle, was frustrating, or almost grew vexing because he couldn't _quite_ get a position right, but other times… other times, losing himself in dancing and skating were the only moments he could escape the nagging uncertainties that plagued him.

Turning back towards the mirror, Yuuri lowered his arms and met Minako's reflected gaze. It was either that or stare at himself, and Yuuri didn't like to do that. He never had, but of late he'd grown to like it even less. It was one thing to study oneself in the midst of dancing, picking out flaws that could be corrected with a slight straightening, a further stretching, but in stillness?

When still, it was less changeable. Less fixable. The flaws weren't quite so easily smooth away, and Yuuri didn't like that. He didn't like it at all.

"Oh," was all he said. Then, "Why did you turn the music off? Do you want me to leave?"

Minako huffed an exasperated sigh before crossing the room to Yuuri's side. She skirted around him and planted herself in his line of sight, which was a reprieve from his own reflection she likely didn't even realise she gave him. "I'm not kicking you out," she said.

"Oh. Thank you?"

"What are you _doing_ here, Yuuri?"

Yuuri cocked his head. "Am I not allowed to come and practice here anymore?"

"That's not what I meant." Minako waved a frustrated hand in an indecipherable gesture. "I mean, why are you _here_? Why aren't you off enjoying yourself?"

"I am enjoying myself."

"You're training."

"That's enjoyable."

"Vigorously training."

Yuuri smiled slightly. To think, that Minako would consider chiding him for practicing too much… "Is that a bad thing?"

Minako's lips thinned. "Have you considered taking a break? You're here almost every day."

"You sound like Phichit," Yuuri said so he didn't have to reply to her question. It was easier to deflect than it was to explain. Minako had been a competitive ballerina herself before she'd retreated to Hasetsu and committed herself to her studio, but she'd never had so much of a struggle. Minako was one of the naturally gifted athletes. Like Victor. Like Yurio. Like so, so many others.

"Phichit?" Minako asked, frowning.

"He video called me the other day. He usually messages me pretty often, but he actually called to talk for some reason."

"Oh." Minako paused, seemingly at a loss for a moment. Then she shook her head and trained her narrowed gaze upon Yuuri once more. "You're deflecting me."

"Sorry," Yuuri said dutifully, because there was no point denying both the truth and the obvious. Not in this situation, at least. Yuuri knew to pick his battles when it came to Minako.

"Off-season should be a time for relaxing," Minako continued, echoing Phichit once more. "Not training like you've got a competition to win."

"Can't I do both?"

"You could, except you're not."

Yuuri shrugged a shoulder. "It would surely get boring doing nothing. Hasetsu isn't so big, you know."

"Maybe not compared to Saint Petersburg," Minako allowed. "But I'm sure you could find other places to spend your time. You're supposed to come to your _favourite_ places when you take a holiday."

Yuuri smiled. "Then why wouldn't I come here?" he said.

Minako's face abruptly wiped clean. Her frown disappeared and blank surprise replaced it. For a long moment she stared at Yuuri before, with a jerk of her head, she glanced sidelong and a small smile of her own touched her lips. "Jeez, you," she muttered, and that was all.

Yuuri's smile widened. He'd caught his breath back, and the urge to sink back into dancing rose once more. He had practice to commit himself to, and he hadn't been lying when he'd told Minako that Hasetsu was quiet and just short of boring. He loved his hometown, but between his efforts to avoid people and the absence of his local friends for their commitments most of the time, there really was little to do.

It helped that Yuuri had more time to commit to getting back in shape, a struggle that still felt a long way off, but otherwise…

"Am I allowed to keep dancing?" he asked.

Minako snapped her gaze back to him. She folded her arms and her smile grew almost contemptuous. "With arms like that? What is this floppiness?"

"What -? But we were just talking, and I –"

"That's no excuse. Goodness, Yuuri, do I have to coach you back into dancing form myself?"

Minako was teasing him, Yuuri knew, but for some reason, some unexpected and inexplicable reason, it stung as it usually wouldn't. That he was so out of shape was…

Yuuri caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as Minako strode back towards the radio. He didn't like what he saw. Yuuri wasn't sure he'd ever been content with his reflection, but right then, he was certain he wasn't.

* * *

Every muscle ached as Yuuri slumped into bed that night. It had been a long day. A big day. Even after nearly three weeks of kicking himself back into gear, he still seemed to be floundering at times.

So he pushed himself harder. Unfortunately, 'harder' didn't immediately equate to 'better'. Thus the aching.

Sighing, Yuuri buried his face in his pillow. He should take a shower, but for the moment he couldn't bring himself to. Instead, all but smothering himself, he catalogued each part of the day that he could improve for tomorrow.

He could perhaps push himself a little further on his morning run.

Maybe he could increase his weights when he went to the gym? There was a danger in doing so, but if that risk was the price to pay for getting to where he wanted to be faster, Yuuri was growing increasingly willing to pay it.

When he stopped by Minako's studio… maybe he could go when her classes were still running and cut his breakfast a little short? She didn't use the back room, and that way he wouldn't have her glaring gaze accusing at him for chewing up her studio time and using her radios. It was all half-hearted annoyance, Yuuri knew, and she would have complained more if he'd kept himself away, but he didn't really want to annoy her even a little.

If he could squeeze another run in somewhere… Perhaps at lunchtime? Or before lunch? He didn't really need all that much time to eat. Yuuri had made the executive decision to downsize his lunches a week before when he'd found the post-luncheon belly to be as much of a deterrent for viewing his reflection as it was a weight that often cramped in discomfort. Anything that slowed him down at the present was an interruption he could do without.

Then there were his evening trips to Hasetsu's Ice Castle… Yuuri didn't like skating in front of others, and on the few occasions he'd arrived before everyone had cleared out, he often found himself with a decidedly unnerving audience. It was different being watched when he was practicing rather than competing. More vulnerable. But if it meant he could squeeze in a few extra hours…

On a detached level, Yuuri knew he was training a lot. His hours were at least as much as he did in peak season – or at least he hoped so. That didn't change the fact that he struggled through some of his drills, or his routines, or the cycles at the gym. That struggle wasn't good enough.

 _Letting himself go…_ Those words probably shouldn't have clung to him as fiercely as they did, but Yuuri couldn't seem to vanquish them. They always returned when he wound to a stop mid-run, or took a brief respite in his practice, or couldn't quite cap the next hundred mark with his sit ups.

_Too old._

_Retirement._

_Reaching the end of the road._

Yuuri wouldn't let it be the end. He couldn't. Not yet, and not when Victor still… when Yurio was…

The buzzing of his phone on his nightstand drew Yuuri's face from his pillow. Rolling sideways, he fumbled blindly and pressed it to his ear without even bothering to glance at the screen. _"Moshi moshi,_ " he yawned wearily.

" _Yuuri_?"

In an instant, Yuuri was jerking upright, his tiredness thrust aside. He stared across his dark room, untouched by the illumination of his bedside lamp, and felt his heart swell. "Victor?"

They'd only spoken at midday. The time difference between Hasetsu and Saint Petersburg bordered upon six hours, so Victor made a point of calling Yuuri when he first awoke. Yuuri might be committed to the training regime he'd built for himself, but he would put just about anything on hold for Victor. Some things were more important.

Victor hummed through the phone, a soft, gentle sound flooded with warmth. _"You sound sleepy. Did I wake you?"_

"No, no – you didn't, it's –" Yuuri paused, glancing briefly at the screen of his phone for the time before all but slapping it back to his ear. "It's only nine o'clock." He cupped both hands around his phone, squeezing it just a little. "What's wrong? Are you alright?"

_"I can't just call to say hello?"_

"Of course you can, but we only spoke this morning."

 _"At lunch time, you mean,"_ Victor corrected.

"Your morning," Yuuri replied with a smile.

Victor chuckled. His voice was still warm, warmer than usual, and touched with a hint of excitement for reasons Yuuri couldn't imagine. He'd grown particularly attuned to the changes in Victor's tone, however. Something was up.

"Really, though," Yuuri repeated. "What's wrong?"

_"Nothing's wrong."_

"Are you going somewhere? Where would you be going mid-afternoon? Don't you have to help Yakov at the rink still?"

Victor laughed once more. He really was unexpectedly bright – which was saying something, because Victor wore brightness like a star. _"What makes you think that?"_

"I can hear the commotion around you, that's what," Yuuri said, for he could. Even with the filter of distance and the phone, Yuuri could make out the buzz of voices that echoed with the telling sigh of a wide space cluttered with people.

 _"You're too cluey,"_ Victor said. He sounded delighted for the fact. _"And you're right. I'm at the airport."_

Yuuri blinked. "What?"

_"Yes, the airport. I've just dropped Makkachin off."_

"You're… what? You're at the airport? Why are you -?"

_"Three weeks is far too long, don't you think, Yuuri?"_

Yuuri's breath caught. He squeezed his phone once more, clutching it like a lifeline. Three weeks was _definitely_ too long. Yuuri had thrown himself into his training, had spent as much time with his friends as he could manage, but it still felt jarringly empty without Victor's company.

Three weeks. Three whole weeks. Yuuri didn't resent Victor's commitment, but he had wished longingly countless times that they weren't quite so extensive.

"You're coming?" he said, his words barely more than a breath.

" _Mm_ ," Victor hummed. _"Too long."_

"Def… definitely too long."

_"I'll be intruding upon your care for a time again, it seems."_

Yuuri smiled waveringly. "Of course you will be. _Okaa-san_ and _otou-san_ would be insulted if you didn't stay at Yu-topia."

 _"Well, I certainly wouldn't want that,"_ Victor said. There was a pause, and his voice lowered a little. _"I just wanted to call to tell you. And to let you know that I miss you."_

"I miss you, too," Yuuri said, though it felt less painful and more full of possibility than their exchange usually did. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

_"You'll meet me at the terminal? Don't be late, yes?"_

"Wouldn't dream of it," Yuuri said.

When he hung up, Yuuri barely felt the aches and pains of his protesting body. There were bigger and better things to occupy his thoughts than regretting that he wasn't up to scratch yet.

Or at least there were for the moment. Just for the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading again! I hope you're enjoying the story so far. If you are - or aren't, and have anything at all to say - please leave me a comment to let me know your thoughts. Thank you already to anon ww for your words; it's more supportive and wonderfully encouraging than you can imagine.


	3. June

Hasetsu airport wasn't large, but it still seemed to take far too much time for passengers to alight from the small plane onto the tarmac and pass through the terminal. Far, far too long.

Yuuri was all but twitching in place, as he waited and it had nothing to do with unexpected excess of energy he found himself with after cutting his morning run short. Or not much, anyway. A part of Yuuri was concerned for disregarding his regime, and that part insisted that he make it up later that evening.

But the bigger part barely considered it at all. It couldn't, because it was wholly committed to peering through the glass wall at Arrivals, grazing his gaze along the passengers checking in.

When he saw him, Yuuri was struck by a bout of expected relief and unexpected longing. He barely registered either, however, because there, right there, with only a minimal plane of glass between them…

Yuuri was running, all but skidding around the temporary belt barriers that held back the rest of the waiters and caring none that he was breaking the rules imposed by the occasional watchful security guard. Yuuri was ducking beneath the belts and flying to the doors before the first passenger stepped through.

It was him. Of course it was him, because he'd run with as much single-minded intention as Yuuri had.

Victor's arms folded around his shoulders the moment Yuuri collided into him. He grasped Victor back just as tightly, pressing his face into his shoulder, and he could feel Victor's forehead drop to his own in return. The kiss of Victor's breath on his neck was warm in an entirely different way to the heat of summer, and though it was likely too hot to cling to another person, Yuuri didn't want to let go. He _never_ wanted to let go.

Passengers swept around them. Yuuri felt but didn't quite see, didn't quite care, that they passed by. He knew on a detached level that they were blocking half of the doorway, but he didn't care about that, either. Such matters seemed inconsequential in the greater scheme of things. Trivial alongside the fact that Victor was here and he was holding him. He was right where Yuuri could see him, could feel him, so close he could smell him.

"Three weeks seems like a really long time," Victor murmured after what could have been an hour as likely as barely a second.

" _Un_ ," Yuuri agreed, barely able to manage even that.

"Let's not do that again."

"Yeah." A blinding heat burned Yuuri's eyes that he only just managed to blink aside. "Why didn't you tell me you were going to come before you were already practically climbing onto the plane?"

"Probably because I didn't know I was going to until I was climbing on the plane," Victor replied, a hint of amusement in his murmur.

Yuuri turned his head slightly to peer up at Victor sidelong. "Does Yakov know you've left?"

"By now? Probably."

"You didn't tell him? Weren't you supposed to be helping him?"

"He's a grown-up; I'm sure he can manage by himself."

"But you didn't tell him you were leaving?" Yuuri didn't feel half as exasperated as he hoped he sounded; he couldn't bring himself to regret Victor's spontaneity in the slightest.

He felt more than saw Victor smile into his shoulder. "I told Yurio. He'll break it to him if he really has no clue."

"Yurio knows?"

"Of course he does."

"I guess I should have expected that."

Victor didn't reply. Instead, he seemed to grow abruptly tired of the conversation and, though his arms tightened briefly, fiercely, he leant back just a little. It would have been a loss, and painfully so, except that his hands instead rose to clasp Yuuri's neck at the junction of his shoulders just as tightly. Yuuri curled his own hands into Victor's shirt just in case he had even the passing thought of stepping back further.

Victor sighed once more. "Let's not talk about this anymore. Can we go? I should get my bags?" He spoke as more of a question than a suggestion.

"Probably," Yuuri said, and yet neither of them made to move. Yuuri, at least, couldn't bring himself to draw his attention from his staring. The familiar flop of Victor's fringe, his bright eyes brighter still with a hint of wetness that Yuuri felt in his own. The soft smile upon his lips that was different from his openly jovial grin, or his teasing smirk. Yuuri liked that smile. It was his, felt like his alone.

He didn't even realise Victor was staring at him just as intently until the barest of a frown touched his brow. "Victor?" Yuuri asked, reaching unconsciously up to his forehead. "Don't frown."

Victor's forehead cleared in an instant, his smile growing slightly wider. "Why? Wrinkles?"

"No. I just don't like seeing you frown."

That smile softened once more. Victor shook his head. "I was just surprised."

Yuuri cocked his head questioningly. "Surprised?"

"You really are training again. And hard, it seems."

For a moment, Yuuri was at a loss as to what he was talking about. He'd spoken to Victor about getting back on track, and through Victor had expressed momentary surprised by his vehement insistence, he'd accepted it easily enough. He'd offered only the brief, "Make sure to take breaks and don't work too hard," that both Phichit and Minako were prone to suggesting and demanding respectively, but had otherwise disregarded it.

What made him consider Yuuri worked 'hard', though, he didn't know. "What do you mean?"

In reply, Victor dropped a hand from Yuuri's neck and prodded his belly with a knuckle. "What happened to your summer belly?"

Pursing his lips, Yuuri batted his hand away before grasping it and linking their fingers. "You're teasing me," he said, because he knew. He hadn't dropped _that_ much weight. It wasn't quite as he wanted himself to be. Maybe enough that the passing journalist might reconsider their spread and speculations, but not enough. "There's no need for exaggerated flattery."

"Who said it was exaggerated flattery?" Victor said, cocking his own head. "I happen to quite like it when you're soft and squishy just as much as when you're not."

"Now _that's_ just mean," Yuuri said, frowning and tugging on Victor's hand. It was just a passing comment, but he didn't want to hear that 'letting himself go' was okay. He didn't want to accept that possibility. Not yet. He wasn't ready for it.

"Mean?" Victor asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes. And exaggerating."

"What? Why would you -?" Victor frowned again, then shrugged the words aside. "You're getting back into peak condition early, though, yes?"

Yuuri shrugged. "It's never too early. Besides, I've got to keep up with you and Yurio, don't I? I'll bet Yurio barely waited for Yakov's permission before getting back on the ice."

"You and your 'keeping up'," Victor said, shaking his head. "And yes, actually. Yakov nearly popped a vein when Yurio took himself on the ice for the first time. Of course he didn't ask him, otherwise I'm sure Yakov would have kept him off for longer."

"I'll bet," Yuuri said, smiling as much in amusement as relief for the conversation passed. When Victor teased him like that, with his kind of jibing flattery that Yuuri _knew_ was exaggerated, despite his denials, it made him uncomfortable. If anything, he felt even more self-conscious of his deficiencies. It wasn't the time, now, nor the place. Not in an airport, and not with Victor only just arrived.

"Come on," he said, taking a step backwards and tugging Victor after him. The passengers from Victor's flight had already almost completely filtered past them. "Let's get out of here. I'm sure Yuuko would be ecstatic to see you if we dropped by the ice castle."

A smile stretched widely across Victor's face, and it was so much better than his frown that Yuuri felt himself warm simply at the sight of it. Victor wasn't old, but he seemed to grow abruptly younger for it, flooded with childlike exuberance. "I would love to! When we pick up Makkachin, yes? Then definitely!"

Then it was Victor all but skipping past Yuuri and tugging him towards the baggage collection. The weight of his hand in Yuuri's, the press of the skin-warmed ring that he never took off matching that on Victor's finger, was possibly the best gift he could possibly receive.

* * *

"Yuuri!"

Victor's exclamation was the only warning Yuuri had, but it wasn't enough to give him time to dodge aside. With a crash, Victor bowled into him, and Yuuri was taken off his feet to crash to the ground.

Or into the water, as it were. The slap of coolness briefly engulfed him, soaking into his already drenched clothes, before he managed to prop himself up. His fringe smeared across his glasses, dribbling droplets down his cheeks, and the waves of his fall lapped at his chin.

Victor was laughing. His peals of joy, of youthful merriment, would likely have been heard all the way up at Yu-topia had Yuuri stood at the front door. Wiping a hand across his face and smearing the salty water from his lenses, Yuuri twisted in place towards where Victor's voice sounded. The foamy white splashes of Victor's flight as he tore through the water in a dance away from Yuuri were more akin to the stampede of three people that one.

Yuuri grinned. He couldn't help himself, what with Victor's infectious good-humour, but it was more than that. It was more than the child-like amusement that Victor dove headfirst into just as he dove through the sedate waves, disregarding of his clothes and what anyone would think of him. It was more than the glaring summer sun and the heat it radiated upon Hasetsu like a beaming spotlight, more than the cool reprieve of the water and the blissful curl of wet sand beneath his feet.

Three weeks really had been too long. Yuuri thought he'd missed Victor, both his brightness and the moments of his quiet calmness, but he hadn't fully appreciated just how much until Victor was actually with him once more. The gaping hole that he'd resolutely ignored was flooded full, and it felt so perfect that Yuuri could hardly contain his overflowing euphoria.

Never again. Hopefully, with any luck, it would never have to be so long again. Yuuri didn't care if it meant he would have to delay returning home for a visit in future; it would be worth it to avoid the past weeks of what retrospectively felt like torture.

The afternoon beach was as filled with beachgoers as it ever got in Hasetsu. Barely stopping by the onsen to drop off Victor's bags, they'd taken themselves through the scorching sun to the water with the intention of killing time before Makkachin arrived from his brief quarantine. Regardless of pet passport, permit, and a history of visitation, it was still something of a procedure.

Yuuri hadn't expected that they would swim. If he had, he might have dressed accordingly. Instead, what had begun as wading ankle deep in water had rapidly devolved when Victor had slipped and crashed head over heels into the sea. Maybe walking backwards, barely attending to what could hardly be termed waves for their gentleness, hadn't been the best of ideas.

"But you're allowed to take dogs down to the beach front, aren't you?" Victor was saying , kicking at the water swirling around his ankles and swinging his arms idly at his sides. "Then that's okay. Makkachin can run, too."

Yuuri shrugged at the suggestion, disregarding the words as being impossible to counter and not having the desire to argue even slightly with Victor at that moment. How could he say that he was more than happy to take Makkachin with him for his morning run, except that he wasn't sure if the old dog would be able to keep up for nearly two hours straight? Yuuri would work around it. He would _make_ it work.

"Sure," he said, kicking at the water himself. The squelch of sand beneath his feet was a soothing balm. Strange, how even three weeks after he'd ended his break, his toes still protested to overworking in skates, and runners, and pointe shoes.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," Victor replied, turning and strolling backwards so he could face Yuuri. "Or maybe I could come with you in the morning?"

Yuuri smiled. He was under no allusions that Victor would stick to his suggestion. While he was no means unfit – Victor didn't seem to lose his fitness quite so easily in the off-season – he'd never been one to join Yuuri on his runs. His offer was likely for the same reason that Yuuri nodded:

He didn't want to be apart from him. Not even for a few hours. Not right now.

Victor beamed at Yuuri's agreement. Spreading his arms wide in an elegant stretch, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes as he faced the sun. "It never gets this warm in Saint Petersburg," he said. "Not even in summer."

"That's unfortunate," Yuuri said, even though he'd already known that. The previous year had been a little disheartening for just how mellow the maximum temperature had been.

"In that regard, I think Hatetsu trumps," Victor mused aloud. "Although, it would be nice to visit in the winter to make full use of the onsen. Hey, Yuuri, do you think maybe we could -?"

That was when the wave hit. It really was nothing much of a wave, little more than a slight hitch from a distantly passing boat. But maybe it had caught Victor mid step, or when he'd trodden on a rock, because it was enough to have his spread arms abruptly flailing before his legs were swept from beneath him and he landed in an extravagant heap.

Somehow he managed to make even that look elegant.

Yuuri couldn't withhold a gale of laughter. The joy that had been building in his chest all morning had been fit to burst, and it overflowed with little consideration for propriety or restraint. His mirth redoubled at the sight of Victor, seated in waist deep water with legs half bent and splayed before him, blinking wide-eyed as though he was shocked that he could _possibly_ have lost his footing. The collapse had been stupendous enough to leave him thoroughly soaked.

Victor's stupor broke as soon as he raised his gaze towards Yuuri, however. Towards where Yuuri had bent double, hands dropping to his knees, as laughter shook him. It wasn't really that funny, but delight for everything – the sun, the sea, Victor – was just too much to contain.

"Hey! Instead of laughing, you could offer me a hand."

"Sorry," Yuuri said between giggles, shaking his head. "Not if it means that you might accidentally pull me down as well."

Victor's eyebrows rose. Then his smile returned in double. "Who said anything about accidentally?"

He was leaping to his feet almost before Yuuri could turn to flee. A mad scramble, water was kicked and flung, and the crazed chase left an explosion on the shoreline. An even bigger explosion erupted when Victor crashed into Yuuri, and they tumbled head over heels into the water. Yuuri couldn't bring himself to regret that his clothes were drenched. It was worth it.

By the fourth collision, Yuuri was breathing heavily and was thoroughly sodden. Hands planted behind him, his own legs splayed, he watched as Victor danced just out of reach, spinning in place and kicking up a whirlwind of water around him. He grinned so widely he seemed to glow, the sunlight reflecting off the darkened dampness of his hair where it was, for once, skewed from its customary flop.

There were moments when time seemed to hang for a split second in suspension, capturing itself forever. For Yuuri, Victor paused mid spin, arms spread wide like wings, and flashing his radiant smile over his shoulder – that was it. That was the only one he needed.

It didn't matter that they were likely too old for such games. It didn't matter that someone might see them, might be watching them, and that a picture like those sneak-cams that often arose in magazines could appear in spreads days from now. It almost didn't even really matter that Yuuri's rigid routine had been decidedly disrupted that day. At least for that moment, it was worth it.

Victor was breathing heavily himself when he eventually slowed and staggered back to Yuuri's side. He plopped into the water at Yuuri's side, briefly sending spray into the air once more, and rocked into his shoulder. Yuuri slumped back against him, content to simply sit and revel in the coolness of the water, the heavy, familiar sound of Victor's breath and all it represented.

It was almost a shame he would have to return to his routine before the end of the day.

"Ah, if only Yurio were here," Victor sighed. "Maybe it would do him some good to melt that objectionable disposition of his."

Yuuri smiled. "I take it he hasn't grown any less argumentative since he's been allowed back on the ice?"

"Not at all. In fact, I think he's even gotten worse!"

"Puberty?"

"Worse, because it's _delayed_ puberty." Victor raked a hand through his hair, scraping it back from his face. Even such a simple gesture seemed somehow graceful, practiced and fluid. Yuuri envied him that as much as he admired it. Victor and Yurio both possessed that long-fingered elegance that one could only be born with rather than obtained through rigorous practice.

Yuuri sighed, dropping his head against Victor's. He closed his eyes, shutting out the figures on the shore, and but for the echoes of distant laughter and the murmur of barely perceivable voices, it was as though they were alone.

"It would be good if he did visit again," Yuuri murmured. "I'm sure everyone would like to see him."

"You think so?" Victor asked.

"Of course. Mari's practically his number one fan, and Yuuko always talks fondly of him. I think she's all but adopted him without his knowledge."

"Hm…"

At Victor's contemplative hum, Yuuri opened his eyes, lifting his head to peer at him. "What?"

Victor was smiling slightly as he trailed his fingers through the calming waters before him. They pattered like raindrops across the surface. When he glanced at Yuuri sidelong, his smile grew conspiratorial. "Say… two weeks from now?"

Yuuri blinked. "What?"

"I give it two weeks. At most, two week before an 'unexpected' guest arrives." Victor huffed a chuckle beneath his breath. He raised a dripping knee, propping his elbow upon it and his cheek atop his hand as he tipped his head towards Yuuri. "It would be good to have him here to train with for you."

Yuuri hummed his agreement, closing his eyes as Victor raised a hand and grazed it through his hair. Such casual contact, the meaning of it and that it meant Victor was _here_ , was as calming as the touch itself. Until he snapped his eyes open in sudden realisation.

"Wait, what?"

Victor regarded him silently. "Hm?"

Yuuri straightened. His hands fell absently behind him, digging into the sand in as much an effort to prop himself up as to cling to something vaguely stable. "Good for _me_?" he echoed.

For a moment, Victor's brow furrowed in confusion. Then it cleared and he closed his own eyes, shaking his head with a chuckle of humour that Yuuri no longer felt. "You always jump onto the smallest word, don't you?"

"You're not thinking of it, are you, Victor?" Yuuri said, barely hearing him. "Not again."

"Yuuri –"

"Because you can't. Not now. Not after last year was – after it was –" Yuuri stuttered off, unsure himself even what he was trying to say. That he couldn't handle Victor decidedly considering retiring once more. That he might be at the older end of the figure skating pool, but he still showed he was more than capable of outdistancing the younger upstarts. That he couldn't stop, not for himself, not for his career. Not to _Yuuri_.

Yuuri had always held Victor in his sights. For as long as he could remember, from his childhood when he'd watched Junior Worlds and first seen Victor perform, he'd been captivated. Victor was something to strive for, something to climb towards, and Yuuri couldn't allow himself to consider the possibility of him never competing again.

That damned article in the magazine. Even as Yuuri was caught upon Victor's words, the recurring reminder of those he'd read just before Minako had snatched the article away from him snagged his mind. There had been a brief mention of Victor's suspected upcoming retirement, but it had been brushed aside as nothing certain. _Yuuri's_ was under study, but not Victor's.

Victor couldn't leave him. He couldn't retire, not while Yuuri was still fighting to cling to what he loved so ardently. Because Yuuri would prove them wrong; all the people who didn't think he could pull himself together, that he wasn't enough, that he was falling apart and sinking into complacency – he would prove them wrong. And Victor? Victor would be at his side when he did it.

Victor couldn't… He couldn't –

"Hey." Victor's finger hooked under Yuuri's chin, raising it from where he hadn't even realised it had dropped to his chest. "Don't look so worried."

"How can I not be when you talk about that kind of thing," Yuuri mumbled, his voice catching in his throat.

Victor sighed. "So worrisome." He grazed his fingers up Yuuri's cheek until they raked through his hair once more. "I didn't say anything about that. I'm still going to stick it out for at least this year."

Yuuri flickered his gaze upwards. Victor's expression was solemn, but not hard. Still soft enough to deny complete sobriety. "You promise."

A smile touched Victor's lips. "Would I lie to you?"

"Then why did you say that? About Yurio and me, _just_ me –"

"You're focusing too much on the small stuff again," Victor said, poking Yuuri in the centre of his forehead. "I just think that, given your vastly different styles, you and Yurio would be able to help one another in many ways more than I could help either of you."

"Don't say things like that," Yuuri said, dropping his chin once more. He hated it when Victor spoke in such a way. _Hated_ it.

Victor sighed. Dropping his hand with a little splash, he leant into Yuuri's shoulder again. "Don't look so sad. At least not on my first day here."

"Sorry."

"That's not something you need to apologise for."

Yuuri shrugged. "Still. Sorry. You're right, it's only your first day, and I shouldn't be –"

"Ah, we need to stop this!" Victor interrupted abruptly. His hands flapped into the water, erupting a splash that had Yuuri squinting through the sudden shower. "Come on, let's go."

"Go?" Yuuri stared up at him as Victor all but leapt to his feet, tall and dripping half of the ocean from his clothes.

Victor smiled, and though it wasn't quite as bright as it had been but minutes before, it wasn't far off. "It's very hot outside, don't you think? And we still have a few more hours before we need to head back to pick up Makkachin. Do you think the Nishigori's would mind if we intruded upon their palace a little early?"

Despite himself and the weight that still rested upon his shoulders, Yuuri smiled. Skating – and more than that, skating with Victor – would always be a possibility he couldn't pass up. He nodded rapidly. " _Un._ "

When Victor offered him a hand, Yuuri grasped it tightly and allowed himself to be hauled to his standing. Victor's slung his arm around his shoulders, and Yuuri hooked his own around Victor's waist in return, and clambered from the beach, leaving the heat of the day behind them.

* * *

Skating with Victor again was like breathing again when breathlessness hadn't even been noticed. Yuuri hadn't realised how much he'd wanted it, _needed_ it, until he took to the ice and clasped a hold of Victor's hand.

He knew that Yuuko was watching. He knew that a handful of late attendants at the rink watched too. But for once, Yuuri didn't care. He couldn't, because between Victor and the ice, there was little else that seemed of any real importance.

A languid chassé disregarded for the moment that Yuuri should be working, should be training.

Simple backwards strokes, just so that he could watch, could talk to, could _see_ Victor, swallowed the deterrence of onlooking eyes.

Crossovers shifted from forwards to backwards, and it was easy, comfortable, and felt so right that for a time Yuuri almost forgot Victor's words on the beach. He could pretend that they hadn't happened, that Victor hadn't even half-heartedly made such a suggestion.

Retirement. The end. Losing steam and downward spiralling. When Yuuri was on the ice with only Victor, he could forget, for a time, about all of that. And for that time, everything was simple. It was perfect.

It was only a shame that it couldn't last forever.


	4. July

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: I know I've already stated the precaution, but this really needs reiteration. This fic - and this chapter - contains potentially very triggering situations of eating disorders and compulsive behaviour. If you think this could in any way be triggering, please don't read it. Please.

Yuuri had to pause before the steps leading up from the beach. After breaching the two-hour mark for his run that morning, for whatever reason, he seemed to have hit his limit.

Bending double, hands dropping to his knees, Yuuri bowed his head to suck in deep gasps of breath. He could hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears, louder than the morning traffic puttering past along the road half a stairwell away. For a moment, Yuuri closed his eyes, and it helped to force aside the bout of unexpected weariness that threatened to overwhelm him.

Where had it come from? Yuuri had pushed himself hard before in the past, in years gone by, but rarely to the point that he'd been forced to stop with an unexpected bout of light-headedness. He knew he was training hard of late, though mostly because both Victor and Minako had pointed it out a number of times and he couldn't quite disregard their observations, but it wasn't _that_ bad. Was it?

Maybe it was the sleep. That was probably it – or at least Yuuri told himself so. He hadn't been sleeping quite so long of late, or so deeply, and it wasn't only because Makkachin had picked up the habit of needing to be let outdoors to relieve himself halfway through the night. Before Victor had arrived in Hasetsu, Yuuri had rolled from bed at seven in the morning, taken himself for a run, and been back by nine.

He couldn't do that anymore. Not when to do so would leave Victor awake and wandering the onsen alone for an hour or so. His desire to avoid such a possibility wasn't so much in deference to guest etiquette but because he couldn't stand thinking of Victor alone right now. Yuuri had taken to climbing from bed with the first glimpse of the sun every morning in compensation.

 _Even after a whole week, it feels unbelievable that he's actually here_ , Yuuri thought, that thought felt oddly reminiscent of those he'd had years before when Victor had arrived in Japan for the first time. It was that thought as much as finally managing to catch his breath that urged him to straighten, pick up his feet, and finish the final leg back to Yu-topia Katsuki Onsen.

The clock on Yuuri's phone flashed past six-thirty as he stepped through the door, easing it closed behind him. The hallways were quiet with the hush of sleeping guests, but if he strained his ears enough, Yuuri could hear the tentative beginnings of breakfast being made. He slipped into the bathroom on silent feet, and by the time he padded back into the front room, his mother and the hired hand had the morning spread already on offer.

" _Ohayo_ ," Yuuri said, edging into the room and sharing a smile with his mother. He was dropping to his knees before the short-legged _chabudai_ , the table already spread with steaming dishes and heated kettles.

 _"Ohayo,_ Yuuri," his mother replied, bustling around the table and placing the last of the plates. "You're up early again."

"Not as early as you," he replied, which wasn't entirely true given his new schedule but was correct in sentiment. They were a different kind of 'up'. His mother only smiled a little more widely, patted her fingers upon his shoulder in the barest of touches, before bobbing sedately back towards the kitchen with her assistant on her tail.

Yuuri had settled himself cross-legged and was sipping at a neglected cup of coffee by the time Victor arrived. A handful of guests had already passed through, and Yuuri had spared them a morning greeting before returning to absently flicking through his phone. Yu-topia Katsuki Onsen wasn't so grounded in tradition and formalities that his parents requested segregation of staff and family from the guests. Yuuri knew many of the guests on a vaguely familiar basis.

Victor yawned expansively as he stepped into the room. He scratched absently at his collar, hitching up the shoulder of his robes with a shrug, and all but collapsed to the floor at Yuuri's side. " _Dobroye utro_ ," he said sleepily, slumping comfortably into Yuuri.

"Good morning," Yuuri replied in English, glancing towards him. A half-awake Victor as often as not forgot to update his language. "You slept in a little later this morning."

Victor yawned again. "And you didn't, I see." He squinted at the table and the half-eaten spread before him. "Have you already eaten?"

" _Un_ ," Yuuri said. "Can I get you something?"

"I think your mother and her assistant more than covered it," Victor replied, straightening and reaching for a plate. "Is there tea?"

"There should be somewhere…" Yuuri peered forwards, leaning across that table as Victor presumptuously picked up Yuuri's own cup and took a sip. Yuuri was more than used to such a habit as he plucked another cup and poured out a serving.

Victor pulled a face. "Ah. Yuck. I forgot you'd taken to having coffee lately."

"I've been having it all week," Yuuri reminded him.

Victor pouted, frowning at the cup as though it were offensive before deliberately placing it onto the table. "If you're going to have coffee, at least use sugar."

"Yours and my idea of sweetness are very different," Yuuri said.

"What happened to the good old days when you drank tea?"

"They disappeared when I realised the benefits of more caffeine content."

Victor accepted the tea Yuuri held out to him with a suspiciously raised eyebrow. Yuuri smiled, shaking his head. "Don't worry, I haven't snuck anything that even slightly resembles a coffee bean into it."

"Hm," Victor said, raising it to his lips. "I'll trust you, but only because I love you."

After two years of a relationship, Yuuri would think most people would have a hold on their instinct to blush when their partner professed their love. Not him. He didn't think he'd ever get tired of it, nor find it not at least a little embarrassing.

Yuuri ducked his chin, dropping his gaze back to his phone in an effort to hide his embarrassment but, as ever, Victor saw straight through him. He laughed quietly and leant into Yuuri again, dropping his chin onto Yuuri's shoulder. For once, though, he didn't say anything pertaining to the matter.

"Are you going to have some breakfast with me?" he asked when he straightened again moments later. He shuffled slightly, pulling himself into the table. "Your mother makes the most delicious meals, I swear upon my life."

"She does," Yuuri readily agreed, glancing up from his phone. "But no. I told you, I've already eaten."

Victor hummed a disgruntled sound in reply, even as he reached for the nearest dish to ladle himself a spoonful. "You don't have a big enough breakfast."

"Yes, I do," Yuuri said. "I know what a standard meal looks like."

"If you need a coffee in the morning to give you sustenance then no, your breakfast isn't big enough." Victor raised a pointed eyebrow as he snapped his chopstick against one another.

Yuuri only shook his head. He didn't bother replying anymore, because to argue wouldn't get him anywhere. The fact of the matter was that Yuuri had to watch himself, to watch his weight, and felt the need to do so more than he had before with the knowledge that he was being sceptically eyed sidelong. If enough people were of a likeminded opinion, it must be at least partially true.

Yuuri's weight had always been an issue. When he was training and in competition season, it wasn't so much of a problem, but the rest of the time? Victor said he thought it was 'cute', which Yuuri not-so-secretly doubted. ahis mother lovingly doted on him with words of how it was typical of their family, and that even Mari had to watch herself at times. Minako used to poke and prod him for just that reason years ago, though she'd been surprisingly quiet on the matter of late.

"You've never been especially big, you know, Yuuri," she'd said several weeks ago in the midst of one of their dancing sessions. "You know that, right? It was always just a bit of teasing."

Yuuri had glanced towards her, pausing mid step in a bout of momentarily stunned silence. "What?"

Minako's frown had deepened, her lips folding alongside her arms. "You do know that… right?"

Where the words had come from, Yuuri didn't know, but he supposed he appreciated it. It was kind of her, and even kinder because Minako wasn't usually partial to tactfulness. The words were wrong, of course, and a kindness, but Yuuri didn't reply to point out as much. He would accept it as the gesture it was.

Victor didn't mention it incessantly but to comment upon it being a contributing factor to Yuuri's sudden bout of tiredness. "Caffeine can't make up for a hearty meal," he'd said a number of times, to which Yuuri's mother had agreed as vehemently as she was ever passionate about anything.

Not that Yuuri abided by their suggestions. He knew his limits and what he needed. Cutting down a little just happened to be a part of those needs.

When Victor had finished his breakfast, chattering to Yuuri throughout with the comfortable ease born of years in one another's company, they climbed to their feet and made from the onsen at a leisurely pace. Had Yuuri his way, he likely would have headed to the gym until lunch, but Victor's company impinged upon his workout hours. He didn't begrudge it – definitely not, for he _couldn't_ – but it did throw out his routine a little. Oftentimes, Victor accompanied him, and the morning in mutual pursuit of fitness was as familiar as their shared breakfasting, but just as often, Victor would suggest a wander through town, or to take Makkachin down to the beach, or any other list of sightseeing that he requested with enthusiasm and that Yuuri couldn't deny.

"I haven't been here for years," Victor said the first morning of his return when they stepped from the front door. He made it seem more like a decade than barely more than eighteen months. "What if everything's changed?"

Yuuri couldn't help but smile with adoration that he didn't bother denying. "I can assure you, it hasn't. I don't think anything really changes in Hasetsu."

"Even so! The pursuit of the tourist way is always a favourable endeavour!"

"The tourist way?" Yuuri asked curiously. "I think that's only still relevant for when we were in Europe, because there isn't all that much to see here."

But Victor wasn't having it. He latched onto Yuuri's hand and, with Makkachin barking on their heels, they all but ran down the footpath leading from the onsen. How could Yuuri deny him such a simple pleasure? Anything that could make Victor smile like a delighted child was more than worthy of pursuing.

It was as though a brightness that had nothing to do with summer sun had fallen upon the city, and Yuuri wasn't even sure if it was solely himself who considered it as such. _Victor_ was bright; he was animated, and enthusiastic, and filtered every experience through new eyes. Yuuri hadn't the time to appreciate it as much years before, so it struck him like a wonderful blow to the head.

The flat-topped mountain overlooking the city seemed immensely taller when Victor good-naturedly bemoaned it being 'so tall'. The stretch of pine grove lining the main road on the outskirts of the town's houses were made incredibly more beautiful when Victor said it was so. The simple pottery pieces from the local market, all handmade and intricately painted, were a wonder of artistry that Yuuri had never fully appreciated before, and the beach had never held quite so much attraction as when they swum together, or sprawled on the sand, or waded through the shallows in idle walks along the coastline.

It was wonderful and peaceful – but after a week, the nagging weight that had afflicted Yuuri for the past month seemed to drag more heavily upon his shoulders. He had a routine. He had a commitment that seemed to grow only more demanding the longer he ignored it.

Blessedly, despite their day trips, Victor was more than content to head towards the ice castle a little earlier than Yuuri had in his afternoons before his arrival. At first, climbing back onto the ice had been as heart-aching as it was wondrous, but that had faded as any indication of Victor's possible drift towards retirement was silenced.

That was a relief. Such a relief that, each time Victor had leapt in one of his incredible quad flips that week, it was as though a torrent of comfort flowed through Yuuri. Victor wasn't declining. He wasn't deteriorating, and he wasn't struggling, regardless of what he claimed about his age.

That left it up to Yuuri to ensure that he didn't either.

By the end of two weeks, however, a different kind of nagging had set in. It arose when he flubbed a jump, over-rotating when he knew he could manage better. It reared its indignant head when he fumbled a step sequence, and bared its teeth when he stumbled through a routine that he _knew_ he could skate, because only the previous year he'd managed just fine. He'd managed _competition-_ worthy _._

It didn't help that Yuuri knew he was tired. It didn't help that, even when he would rather climb into bed, he took himself for another run, or to the gym, because the niggling jitteriness that had nothing to do with an excess of physical energy gripped him. When he flopped into bed alongside Victor and Victor rolled half on top of him, and when he climbed out of bed before him each morning…

Yuuri knew he was tired, and that Victor might be a little correct about cutting down on his breakfast, and his lunch, and even his dinner at times to less than his usual on-season diet. But even knowing that didn't change anything. It only made it more vexing because Yuuri _knew_ what he needed to do, what his body needed for him to push himself more on track this year, and it was fighting him every step of the way. His stamina was his strength. If he didn't have that, what chance did he have against his competitors?

It was in the midst of rising frustration that their 'guest' arrived in town, and not so unexpectedly, as Victor had jokingly called him. If anything, it was a little funny just how accurate Victor's estimation had been; it was almost two weeks on the dot.

Or it would have been funny, had Yuuri not flubbed his Salchow for the third time in a row just before he came in.

"Didn't you learn how to land those properly two years ago?"

Yuuri, skirting the rink in silent frustration that he kept tightly coiled within himself, snapped his gaze towards the doors in a sudden upwelling of further vexation. Only for it to all but abandon him at the sight of the figure leaning lazily upon the closed rink gate.

Victor replied before Yuuri could get a word in. "Yurio! What an unexpected yet wonderful surprise!" He flashed Yuuri a smile as he skimmed lazily past him.

Yurio grunted, draping his arms over the rink wall. "You don't sound sincere at all."

"Hello, Yurio," Yuuri said, waving brightly. His poor humour was rapidly retreating with more speed than it was usually prone to doing. "What are you doing here? Did you just get in?"

Yurio turned his frowning almost-glare from Victor to Yuuri. "My plane arrived this morning. I just caught a taxi."

"You could have called us. Someone would have come to pick you up."

"I'm more than capable of getting myself around," Yurio grumbled, rapping his knuckles upon the inside of the wall.

Yuuri shared another glance with Victor, but it was with an attempt to smother his grin this time. Yurio hadn't changed in the two months since Yuuri had seen him last. If anything, he seemed to be fulfilling every stereotype that Yuuri had constructed of him. Grumbling, objectionable, independent… Victor was right in claiming he was very much embracing the role of a teenager.

Cruising towards the wall, Yuuri skirted to the gate with Victor on his tail. "You didn't tell us when you were coming," he said.

Yurio peered up at him around the curtain of his fringe. "I notice you said 'when' not 'if'."

"Ah, you can blame Victor for that," Yuuri said, shrugging the blame aside. "He guessed it."

"You're too predictable, Yurio," Victor said, backing into the wall and propping his elbows on the edge. "I hope you're not following the same habit with your routine."

"Oi, get off my back, would you?" Yurio said, shooting him a glare that Yuuri recognised well enough to know that it carried very little actual aggravation. "Nagging my ear off the second I get in."

"If you didn't want to be nagged at, you didn't have to come," Victor replied brightly. "I'm sure Yakov would be delighted if I called to let him know you've arrived."

"Funny, he'd probably be the same if I told him about _you_."

"I'm a grown adult and thus more than entitled to go where I please. _You_ on the other hand –"

"He raged for a whole three days when you disappeared –

"I can't imagine with the state you're in –"

"- take a little responsibility –"

Yuuri glanced between them as they spoke over the top of one another. Just like that, with the dip back into familiar territory, he felt the last of his irritation vanish. Victor, smiling as he teased with sincere amusement, and Yurio, rising to the bait like a fish before a hooked worm.

Yuuko's arrival, sidling up behind Yurio, went unnoticed until Yuuri leant over the wall to wave in greeting. "Sorry, are we causing a commotion?"

"Not at all," Yuuko said, beaming as Yurio twisted towards her and Victor waved too with a bright, "Hello, Yuuko-chan". "I just wanted to make sure Yurio got in alright."

"It was a two second walk from the front doors," Yurio said, straightening from his lean. As he did so, the hint of his growth spurt became that much more apparent.

Yurio would never be tall. He would likely never be particularly big, either, and though he bore the same leggy-ness as Victor, if leaning more towards the degree of teenage lankiness, Yuuri doubted he would ever be of the same height. He was almost of a height with Yuuri, however, and as Yuuri peered at him sidelong it, was to notice he'd gained perhaps an extra half an inch or so. His time of enforced rest had apparently allowed for a little growth.

"How's your knee, Yurio?" Victor asked, leaning backwards over the boards that lined the rink as though to peer at the evidence of Yurio's injury.

Yurio kicked his leg behind himself, crossing his ankles in an exaggerated show. "Eh, it's fine. I still have to wear a brace when I'm skating, but apparently my physiotherapist says it's healing well enough."

"Well enough?" Yuuri asked, frowning slightly. "It was a pretty bad tear, wasn't it?"

Yurio scrunched his nose. "I said it's fine. And besides, I've been back on the ice for weeks. There's no need to mother hen me, _buta_."

Two months wasn't that long. It surely wasn't long enough for Yuuri to forget the nickname Yurio had dubbed him with years before. That he'd resorted to the Japanese term rather than English meant precious little in the whole scheme of things, but 'pig' was a title all but independent of the word itself. Yuuri knew that Yurio had no malicious intent behind his reference but for mild derision, but even so…

Why did it sting a little more this time? Was it just the time apart? Yuuri didn't know, but he was folding his arms across himself before he'd even realised. It took a concerted effort to lower them, and a touch of relief rose within him when a glance proved that no one seemed to have noticed.

Instead, Yuuko was chattering to Yurio animatedly, all but gushing in welcome. "You're more than welcome to visit whenever you'd like, of course, though Yuuri and Victor usually come towards the end of the afternoon just as we're closing. The rink is at your service."

Yurio ducked his head a little, offering a hint of a grateful smile. "Thanks, Yuuko-san."

Yuuko's smile widened further at the term of address, and Yuuri couldn't help but silently congratulate Yurio for remembering. He'd made an attempt to teach Yurio rudimentary Japanese, just as he had Victor, in exchange for the Russian that he'd picked up over the years. It felt even more important given that some of Yuuri's family and friends weren't fluent in English. But Yurio had been all but dismissive of his attempts – or he'd seemed to be. Maybe he wasn't quite so dismissive after all.

"Will you be skating tonight?" Yuuko asked.

"I'd like to see what you've made of my choreography," Victor said, raising an almost challenging eyebrow.

"Did you choreograph his routine?" Yuuri asked, glancing towards him. "I didn't know that."

"Not all of it," Yurio said, clicking his tongue indignantly. "Just bits and pieces."

"Have you changed even more of it, Yurio?" Victor pursed his lips in a pout. "That's hurtful, you know."

"Shut up."

"I could take real offence at that."

"I said, _shut up._ "

Yuuri shared a smile with Yuuko, but it was dampened slightly by the exchange. He hadn't known Yurio had been skating one of Victor's routines again. Maybe he should have expected it, given that Yurio frequently made such demands of Victor, but it still hit him a little hard.

The previous year, Victor had kept his coaching mantle and worked alongside Yuuri to develop his routine. He'd done the same with Yurio, and that they had almost worked as a team wasn't missed by the International Skating Union, every other reporter in every other confidence, or their sea of fans. It had been as much a topic of debate as it was a wonder, because Yuuri knew Victor had made a point of stylistically tailoring their routines to each of them individually.

It had worked. It had done _better_ than worked. Yuuri didn't know why he would have thought this year was going to be any different, but…

 _This is a good thing_ , he told himself, shoving down the confusing jumble of melancholy, regret, and just a little jealousy that rose within him. _If he's still choreographing for both himself and Yurio, then that means he didn't have any real intention of stopping this year. It's fine. It's all fine._

Yuuri's internal chanting didn't help the upwelling of nervousness that tingled all the way through him to his toes, however. If Yurio were skating to another of Victor's routines, then that would make the competition all that much harder. Couple that with Yurio's youth, the impressive career he'd already had, and the possibilities that stretched before him, and he was sure to be outdone. Yuuri's time was limited and –

 _Stop it,_ he chided himself as Yurio turned mid sentence towards Victor once more, his voice rising in the familiar tones of indignation. _I can't let this get the better of me. I just need to try harder, to push myself more, and… and…_

It was a little difficult to convince himself when Yuuri was flubbing his jumps, but he thrust the thought aside as Victor drifted towards him. He glanced up at him and adopted a smile that he hoped hid his distress at least a little.

"Shall we?" Victor said, holding out a hand.

"Oi, don't ignore me," Yurio said, smacking a hand to the top of the wall. "I haven't finished with you, and –"

"I was thinking we might give jumps a rest for a bit, hm? You never know who might take it into their head to mimic the attempts when he should be taking it easy still."

"Oi!" Yurio protested again, but Yuuri barely spared him a glance. He laughed, nodding in real amusement and tugged Victor's hand as he retreated in backwards strokes.

"Come on, Yurio," he called as Yurio resorted to grumbling once more. "You can join us if you'd like."

Yuuri wasn't oblivious to the reason behind Victor's suggestion to leave jumps for a while. Not at all, and he loved him, impossibly, just a little more for it. Victor could be blunt at times, tactless at others, and he teased Yurio especially with an unshakeable good humour that never failed to get under Yurio's skin.

But he was kind, and he'd grown to see when help and support was needed. Sometimes, he knew just the right thing to say, too. Once, Victor would have spoken anyway. Once, he would have pulled Yuuri up on his errors, unaware that every criticism was like a physical blow and only a shadowing echo of the reprimands Yuuri gave himself. That it stung like salt poured into an open wound.

But not anymore. Grasping Victor's hand and leading the step sequence at a sedate pace, Yuuri thrust aside his lingering discomfort and lost himself to the ice and Victor's knowing, silent smile.

* * *

There was a celebration. Of course there was, because it had been years since Yuuri, Victor, and Yurio had all been in Hasetsu together. Yuuri had known that his friends and family kept up with the championships, that they cheered for them in their competitions, but he hadn't appreciated it until that moment.

The onsen was alive. The smells pouring from the kitchens were a riot of rich spiciness, wafting a cacophony of aromas into the air. Music was playing, and the lilting tune told Yuuri that it was Minako who had chosen it.

The private dining area was rearranged to accommodate family rather than allowing the inclusion of the onsen's guests. Drinks were poured, _zabuton_ spread about the low-lying tables, and someone had strung lanterns. That same someone was likely responsible for calling ahead and alerting Yuuri's parents of Yurio's arrival in the first place. Yuuri would put his money on Yuuko, who disappeared from the ice castle unexpectedly early that afternoon.

When Yuuri arrived alongside Victor and Yurio, in the throughs of deep discussion and dragging Yurio's travel case behind them, it was to be assaulted and immediately dragged into the party that had apparently begun ahead of them. Yuuri found himself grabbed by the hand, an arm slung over his shoulders, and he stumbled through the doorway with barely enough time to slip his shoes off.

It was an explosion of activity. Raucous greeting welcomed them, and Yuuri nearly jumped from his skin at the chorusing exclamation of, "Welcome home!" Bodies and faces, seemingly more dense for the size of the room, crowded him, and Victor and Yurio were drawn into greetings right behind him.

There was the Nishigoris, all five of them and with the three girls continuing their exclamation of greeting with synchronous timing. Minami, who had reportedly become something of a semi-permanent feature in the onsen over the years, beamed and waved wildly, briefly latching onto Yuuri's arm before he disappeared just as quickly. Yuuri's parent, Mari, Minako, a handful of Yu-topia's workers who were more family than simply staff. Yuuri even spied the face of a few of the regulars; Mr Ito and Mrs Saki fluttered their fingers in his direction briefly before he lost sight of them.

It was astounding. Unexpected, unlike Yurio's inevitable arrival had been, if not in the fact that it had happened so much as how overwhelming it was. Yuuri had known that his family would be excited for Yurio's arrival, but he hadn't known they'd been waiting for him as Minako had told him, hissing in his ear when she briefly monopolised his attention.

"We wanted to throw you a proper party when you flew in, but figured it would be more fun when everyone was here."

"You knew Victor and Yurio would come?" Yuuri asked, surprised.

Minako snorted inelegantly. "Of course I did. Because of course they would."

"What? Why?"

"Because, silly, Victor wouldn't let you come just by yourself. Neither would Yurio for that matter."

"I'm pretty sure Yurio came because Victor's here," Yuuri said, sparing a glance for Yurio where he'd been caught in an argument of sorts with Minami. Minami had been sore by Yurio's blatant disregard of him for years, and that rawness clearly hadn't abated any. The two of them looked like nothing if not a disinterested cat before a yapping puppy.

"If you really think that, then you're less intelligent than I give you credit for," Minako said, and Yuuri snapped his attention back to her. She disappeared before he could ask what she meant, however.

Drinks were passed around, courtesy of Minako's cellars, and Yuuri instinctively passed his off to Victor. Conversation that was more like an exchange of exclamations tore around them, and Yuuri was sure he'd been greeted by everyone at least twice. Even those he'd already seen that day seemed to feel the need to approach him and greet him.

That, and shower him with words of congratulations.

"The girls recorded every second of the Worlds, you know," Nishigori said, proud despite his exasperated glance in their direction. "Just about clogged up our memory, if that's even possible."

"We watched all of your competitions with your parents," Mrs Saki said, grinning up at Yuuri with her gap-toothed smile. Her old eyes sparkled. "I know little of skating myself, but I was a dancer when I was younger, see, and –"

"You weren't a dancer, Saki-san," Mr Ito interrupted her, chuckling as he spoke and seeming to ignore Yuuri entirely but for the hand he had rested upon his shoulder. "You like to think you were, but you weren't."

"Oh, shush, you," Mrs Saki replied.

"It was wonderful, Yuuri!" Minami all but shouted when he appeared at Yuuri's side again. "Your Free Program – I swear, I'm going to pull of a quad flip just like you and Victor some day. I _swear_ it."

"Pipe down, Junior," Yurio said from his side.

"Hey, I'm older than you!"

"Yet infinitely more immature."

"Hey!"

"I appreciated the stylistic choice of your outfit for your short," Minako said, and the slight slurring of her words, barely an hour into the makeshift party, bespoke more drinks than likely the entirety of the rest of the attendants had partaken of. "It was a 'freedom' theme, right? That was what it meant with the waves and the sea and everything?"

"Yes, Minako-san," Yuuri said, repeating the exchange he'd already had with her days before. "That's it exactly."

Minako gave him an exaggerated wink. "I'm observant like that, you see."

It was all a little assaultive, and even more so because Yuuri didn't let himself partake of even a sip of wine to loosen the gears. This was family, close friends, but he'd still never been fond of crowds. But Yuuri didn't trust himself with liquor; too many historical moments had been enacted when he was inebriated. That, and… Yuuri wasn't wholly unaware that drinks weren't a factored element of his regime. He was on a diet, after all.

His relief was almost overpowering when Yuuri eventually seated himself on a _zabuton_ and his mother announced in her quiet yet pervasive voice that she would be bringing out dinner. Victor dropped onto the cushion at Yuuri's side and spared him a glance and a smile.

"I was surprised when you told me they didn't really celebrate your return home," he said, leaning as he always did into Yuuri's shoulder. Yuuri was more than comfortable with the easy contact. "I didn't believe they wouldn't do _anything_."

Yuuri didn't have time to reply, because his mother and her pair of helpers had reappeared, laden with steaming dishes and bearing wide smiles. And after that –

Everything went downhill after that.

It started with the katsudon. Yuuri loved his mother's katsudon. It had always been his absolute favourite. That very katsudon he hadn't had in years, and its arrival amidst a veritable buffet of dishes didn't pass unnoticed.

It proceeded when the food was dished out. Spoons were exchanged, chopsticks raised between fingers, and a table-wide, " _Itadakimasu_!" sounded throughout the room in hearty sincerity.

Yuuri hadn't realised how rigid his behaviour become until his routine was usurped. Training required a set menu of sorts. Simple meals, ungarnished with richness and heavy in protein. More than that, however, Yuuri hadn't realised just how much he'd been eating until someone – his mother, he thought – unexpectedly put a heaped bowl before him.

The room seemed to fade around Yuuri as he dropped his gaze. It was… a big bowl. Huge, even. Had they always been so big? Yuuri blinked, felt himself lean away from the table slightly, and his hand unconsciously dropped to his belly. Regardless of liking his mother's cooking, the glorious wealth of katsudon was big, it was rich, and it stepped outside of every stipulation that Yuuri's unspoken meal plan demanded. He didn't want to eat it, could abruptly imagine what it would do to his training regime, and diet, and...

Thoughts whirled. Memory of a crumpled magazine arose, a picture within. Holidays, the liberty of that brief respite, the carelessness of partaking of evry cuisine because it _didn't matter_. Minako jabbing his gut, Yurio's offhanded " _buto"_ and even Victor.

_"I like it when you're soft and squishy."_

Yuuri knew he was lying. He had to be. Abruptly, he didn't want that. He didn't want it ever again, not to be weighted down, not to be 'letting himself go' as the journalist had called it weeks before.

How Yuuri ended up eating the entire bowl, he wasn't quite sure.

It was a jarring experience. The room didn't quite fade back into clarity; the echo of voices around him rose and fell but individual words were indecipherable. Victor turned towards him for something, asked a question, and Yuuri glanced his way but couldn't reply. He didn't even know what he said.

He ate the bowl. He ate the whole bowl, and it was… horrible.

Bingeing wasn't an unfamiliar experience for Yuuri. Stress-induced, driven by self-pity, an onrush of anxiety that demanded an outlet, regardless of how unproductive it was. There were countless reasons, and Yuuri had experienced his fair share of them. That moment, those _moments,_ were familiar in one respect – Yuuri barely tasted the food, felt no control over himself as he ate, was little more than a passenger in his own body.

 _That_ was the same. But the rest… the rest was different. Not hunger. Not stress. Not even sadness and self-pity. Without even knowing how, Yuuri found himself staring down at his empty bowl and squeezing his chopsticks as though his fingers longed to snap them in two.

His heartbeat throbbed in his ears, and for a brief moment, it was all he could hear. And then –

Someone laughed. Someone else exclaimed so loudly that it seemed to shake the very air. Throughout the room, merriment and merry-making abounded; Minako poured wine, revelling in the chance to partake alongside fellow drinkers for once. Mari was showering Yurio with more adoration than she ever expressed for anything, while Yurio was as clearly disturbed as he always was.

There was Yuuko, giggling at something Yuuri's mother had said. Alongside the triplets, Minami was embroiled in a fierce discussion that had his face growing even more animated and his cheeks flushing. All of them, up to and including Victor at Yuuri's side where he was still leaning comfortably into Yuuri's shoulder and chatting to Nishigori, were enjoying themselves.

Yuuri should be to. He wanted to be. But all he could think of was the dinner. All he could focus upon was the sudden, bursting weight in his belly from a meal larger than he'd partaken in weeks. Larger than he _should_ have partaken.

It was too big. Too rich. Too heavy and too much of _everything_. Yuuri hadn't tasted it, but the aftermath… What came after was more bitter and repugnant than any of his mother's dishes had a right to be.

Yuuri knew the taste of guilt. He knew the flavour of shame. He knew it well and had experienced it so often that it was almost like an ugly neighbour sticking their head through his window to intrude upon what should have been delightful party.

But this was different to how it usually was. Yuuri had never felt such a way after he'd eaten almost fit to bursting. A touch of guilt, perhaps, a retrospective reprimand and a promise to avoid for the future, but not this. Not this.

 _Letting himself go_ …

Those words. Those damned words that echoed in his mind, not even from the magazine anymore but in his own voice. Yuuri felt his stomach roil, and then again, worse, when he dropped his hand to his belly and felt the distension. This was it. This was how it happened. This was… When he'd been holidaying, and before that, with every other off-season… This was how it always happened.

Yuuri abruptly knew he was going to be sick. He knew it with the same certainty that he knew holding his breath promised as gasping pant the longer he smothered himself.

All but leaping to his feet, murmuring an apology to Victor as he was unsettled that Yuuri barely even heard from himself, he all but ran from the room. The sounds of more laughter, more bright companionship, chased him down the hallway, and he stumbled upon suddenly tilting wooden floor. He clutched at the doorframe into the bathroom, just managed to slide the door closed behind him, and lunged for the toilet bowl just as he began retching.

Yuuri's heartbeat thundered in his temple. Unprecedented darkness seemed to cluster the edge of his vision. His fingers protested at how hard he clung to the toilet bowl, and his throat convulsed in spasms with each retch. He dropped to his knees, legs wobbling, and yet couldn't… he couldn't…

Who in their right mind actually wanted to heave their guts in the toilet bowl? Yuuri wasn't sure, but he abruptly lumped himself into their category when retching brought up nothing but loss and regret for its uselessness. Nothing. No reprieve. No shaking the mechanical bingeing at dinner that wasn't driven by nerves, or post-competition blues, but something else. Something more compulsive. Something that Yuuri couldn't explain.

Loss.

Regret.

So much shame.

That overwhelming tide of guilt that spurred clutching the toilet bowl and hating that a single meal, a single celebration, could send him spiralling back towards 'the end of the road' as a certain journalist had called it. It hurt. It hurt enough that, even knowing it was wrong, that it was probably stupid, and having barely a clue what he was doing, Yuuri shoved a hand into his mouth and stuffed his fingers down his throat as far as they could go.

It wasn't pretty. It wasn't nice. There was no immediate sense of relief as fruitless gagging gave way to an upwelling of half-digested meal. A different kind of bitterness lathered his tongue, a convulsing spasm that sent a tremble through his body and stoppered his breath in his nostrils. Then it was spilling forth before he could even snatch his fingers from his lips.

Not pretty. Not nice. Thick, and uncontrollable, and spilling in a filthy mess from his mouth. Yuuri gasped between retches, between the uprising dinner that wasn't _supposed_ to be tasted a second time. Not like that.

It was ugly. It was sharp. It was rich more from the tang of guilt and shame and _what am I doing?_ than bile. Yuuri continued to gag long after the mess spilling forth had died to nothing, to a smear of spit and vomit on his lips that tasted as katsudon never should. Not ever.

Yuuri clutched the toilet bowl as he panted, gasping for breath. His shoulders quivered, the upheaval in his belly wailing in protest for its disruption, and all he could do was drop his cheek to the toilet seat and struggle to claw his way back to a semblance of composure. He stared unblinkingly at where his hand clutched the bowl, at his fingers slick with spit and something else that shouldn't stain a hand at all.

It was disgusting. It was horrible. It felt wrong –

And yet the fullness had left him. The hated bloated discomfort, the evidence of a binge that had occasionally plagued him but never quite so fiercely, was smothered. There was guilt, and there was shame, but the emptiness pervading in intensity as Yuuri's stomach slowly, slowly settled – it made up for it. Just a little bit.

He closed his eyes. How long had he been in the bathroom? Yuuri didn't know, couldn't think. Long enough to be noticed? He hoped not. That night was supposed to be for celebrating the return of friends and family, banded together after years apart. Yuuri didn't want to disrupt that with his sudden bout of nausea and self-loathing. Never.

It took a herculean effort to push himself to his feet, but he managed. Yuuri wiped down the toilet seat. He flushed the evidence away, then once more for good measure. He scrubbed at his hands in the sink until his skin protested the abusive treatment, just to make sure that the stain and the spit and the smell was gone, and he washed out his mouth until barely the shadow of aftertaste touched his tongue.

The glimpse he caught of himself in the mirror wasn't pretty. Yuuri had never liked to stare at himself, but his reflection even worse in that moment. Pale, guilty, ashamed – Yuuri hoped that no one else would see it. He desperately hoped that no one would notice.

Thrusting aside the worry, he brushed a hand down his shirt, just to be sure it was free of any possible stains. His hand pressed briefly against his belly, his stomach finally settling into a knot of tightness that blessedly wasn't the same as fullness. It still didn't feel quite right, didn't look right as he dropped his gaze to where his hand rested, but it was better than it had been. Definitely better.

And Yuuri left. He left the room and what he'd done. He clapped his hands to his cheeks, painted a smile upon his face, and slipped from the bathroom back towards his friends. They were still loud, still raucous, and Minako was still pressing drinks upon everyone with a persistence that, thankfully, Yuuri could avoid with repeated deflections. And when Yuuri dropped back to Victor's side, dismissing Victor's curious frown and murmured, "Are you alright?" he put the incident behind him.

It was over for now. A one-off incident born from necessity. It wasn't like it would happen again. Yuuri wouldn't let it.


	5. August

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Again, I know I've said it before, and I swear this will be the last time, BUT. This fic, and especially this chapter, contains both explicit references to eating disorders and a very unhealthy mindset that could be triggering to some people. It's not pretty. Please don't read if you think this might be a problem or discomforting for you.

It was unexpected, how much toothpaste cost when bought with exceptional frequency. And mouthwash. And gum, for that matter, because though Yuuri had never liked chewing gum, necessity demanded that certain measures be taken.

It was that or run the risk of someone finding out, and for reasons that Yuuri didn't want to explore, he didn't want that. Not at all.

The first time he'd forced himself to vomit had been a shock to his system. The full-body stupor, the trembling in his legs, in his fingers, and the light-headedness that hadn't left him for the rest of the night, was only disguisable because most of Yuuri's friends had been lost in their drinks.

But that was only the first time. The second time was a little easier. And the third. After that, Yuuri didn't bother counting anymore. When necessity forced his hand again and again, Yuuri found it did get easier. This, at least, he seemed to be a natural at. He wasn't quite sure if that was a good thing or not just yet.

A part of Yuuri knew that what he did was unhealthy. That it was wrong. That people weren't supposed to throw up after eating, if they ate at all. Such knowledge did precious little when Yuuri ate dinner with his friends and family, when they offhandedly passed him a bowl and as a result all but demanded he eat. That he eat _with_ them, and sometimes _more_ than them, because he couldn't help it. It was a mindless, mechanical process; Yuuri could hardly even discern what it was that he ate most nights, let alone taste it.

There was shame that all but swallowed him when he stared down at his empty plate and could scarcely remember how it have been scraped clean. There was horror for the compulsiveness that was reminiscent of the occasional stress-induced binges he'd fallen prey to in the past but was somehow new and different at the same time. There was an upwelling of self-disgust rising in his gorge, the taste of expectant bile touching his tongue, and the weight of too much food in his belly…

No one said anything when he took the first opportunity provided to slip to the bathroom. Likely no one noticed, though Yuuri's paranoia, the niggling reminder that he was doing something that he probably shouldn't be, and that people shouldn't find out, had him hyperaware of any passing glance. Not that it stopped him. Almost every night, because it had become a habit to dine together, Yuuri found himself on his knees before the toilet bowl, heaving up his dinner in convulsive retches.

It did get easier. With each passing night, it grew a little easier, a little less of a struggle, to shove his fingers down his throat and rid himself of the horrid weight in his stomach. That weight, the feeling of fullness - it was more than simple discomfort. In a matter of weeks, a matter of days, Yuuri grew to hate that feeling. It was a sign, a symbol of the mindlessness, the emptiness of a plate, the twitching of fingers around chopsticks or spoon and knowing he lacked control of his hands.

When had that happened? When had he grown so incapable of control for something so simple as eating a meal? Yuuri wasn't sure, but he took the necessary measures for what followed. If he couldn't at least manage his diet, how could he face the challenges of his career. What did that make him but a failure in this, too?

Yuuri was on his knees in the toilet more than he'd ever been before in the weeks following Yurio's arrival, and it had nothing to do with the flu, or drinking, as Minako's frequent company and her evenings sharing a glass with Victor would suggest a possibility. And each night, when he climbed to his wavering feet and took himself to the sink to scrub the mess from his hands and wash out his mouth, Yuuri would pause before the mirror. He'd never liked looking at his reflection except on a professional basis, but he had to look. He had to check.

Logically, Yuuri knew a single meal wouldn't immediately lay itself upon his bones. Logically, he knew that the dish he'd just eaten, the same dish that was mostly upheaved into the toilet seconds before, wouldn't have sunk to his gut, filled out his arms, legs and belly, or puffed out his cheeks.

Logic sat in the back of Yuuri's mind, but he still had to check. He still had to press his hand against his stomach, feel the relative flatness that wasn't quite comfortably flat enough, just to be sure. Some days, the reassurance presented itself. Other days, he fell short.

It was part of the reason he started rising just a little earlier to extend his morning runs. It was part of the reason he took to visiting Minako's dance studio just before lunchtime, too, leaving Victor and Yurio to their own devices to instead immerse himself in her company, her music, and her ignorance. Dancing through lunchtime meant that he wasn't distracted by thoughts of a meal. He was never that hungry, anyway, and any hunger was secondary when compared to staring in the reflection and seeing the evidence of a meal beneath his skin, or stretching out his shirt just a little.

Pushing himself a little harder at the gym, at the rink, staying later at the ice castle so that even Yurio began to complain that he was tired with moans of "can we go already?" It was unexpected because Yurio was as committed as anyone Yuuri had ever known – but he didn't have the same need as Yuuri. Not the same drive, the same necessity to improve.

Yuuri's strength had always been in his persistence. He made best use of that over the weeks, just as he did the ignorance of those around him. It was easy to deflect questions and comments when those questioners and commenters were only speaking offhandedly.

"Are you alright?" Yuuko asked. "You look a little pale. Are you feeling sick?"

Sick? Yuuri could _make_ himself sick, but no, he wasn't sick. He shook his head, waved a hand, and replied, "It's probably just from being indoors so much. Not enough sun, maybe?"

"You were up earlier than usual this morning," Victor said over breakfast as Yuuri sipped at a black coffee. "When Makkachin woke me up to go outside, you were already gone."

"Oh, yes, I couldn't sleep for some reason this morning so figured I'd just go for a run a little earlier." Yuuri kept his gaze a little lowered, because thought it wasn't quite a lie, confessing that his trouble sleeping wasn't a one-off thing was almost the same. He didn't know quite why he felt the need to hide the truth from Victor, but he did.

"Aren't you going to eat anything?" Yurio said over dinner, pausing mid bite with chopsticks raised. He frowned at where Yuuri paused in conversation with Victor to glance towards him.

Yuuri shrugged a shoulder. "Maybe later," he said. "I'm not really hungry at the moment."

"You're not hungry?" Yurio's frown deepened. "Even after all that practice?"

Yuuri shrugged again.

"Weird," Yurio muttered. "Weird for you, too."

Yurio's words were likely as offhanded as anyone's, and just as likely unintended to be hurtful, but it was a struggle to withhold a flinch. _Weird for you_. Yuuri knew what Yurio meant, and it stung. But more than that, that he'd thought it was _weird…_

_Does he think it's abnormal? Is it… does he think it's wrong?_

Why the thought induced near panic in Yuuri, he didn't know. It was that panic that had him reaching for this chopsticks, however. It was what tripped him into dinner that night, and the cycle of eating, of barely tasting, of staring at an empty plate and hating himself for it, arose once more. He excused himself from the table as soon as he could. As soon as it wouldn't appear 'weird'.

Wiping down the toilet seat, just in case. Flushing twice to be certain any evidence was erased, also just in case. Scrubbing his hands until they were all but raw, rinsing his mouth until his teeth stung from the cold water, gargling and spitting, and sometimes even brushing his teeth straight away. Opening windows, spraying the air, waiting to be sure, to be _sure_ , that any evidence was gone.

It became habitual. All of it, just in case. Yuuri wasn't wholly sure just why he felt such a fierce need to hide what he did, especially when it was so relieving, so necessary, and left him feeling just a little bit better, but he did. Because logic still remained, present enough to tell him that most people… _most_ people didn't vomit up their dinner almost every night.

Yuuri wasn't satisfied with his routine. Each morning when he awoke and dragged himself from bed, yawning as he ran down the beach to the sound of the city barely blinking into its own wakefulness, it was disappointing because he had to cut it short to be back for breakfast. Each dance class, each workout at the gym, each afternoon on the rink – it was all just a little disappointing because Yuuri knew he could do better, _wanted_ to do better, but couldn't quite seem to manage. He pushed himself harder, more, but for some reason couldn't quite seem to manage it. Not quite to 'get there'.

Throughout, the niggling words he'd read in that magazine months before clung to him like a second skin. _Maybe I am reaching the end of my road?_

That thought hurt most of all. Pushing himself to run further, to train harder, to jump higher, helped a little to stave of the dull, throbbing pain of it. Bypassing most of breakfast but for a coffee, skirting around the issue of lunch where he could, and bringing up what he was forced into for dinner – it all helped. Just a little bit, and not enough to be persistently beneficial, but it helped. Briefly.

Yuuri could only think in the now. If he focused too far ahead, to the upcoming championships and the competition that he'd fought in so many times already, it would tear him down. So he didn't think. He trained and he purged himself of the feeling of fullness after a binge. And it helped.

For now.

* * *

Søren Bebe's now familiar music rippled through the studio, urging a continuation of dance. To rise _en pointe_ , to raise arms, to sink into the melody with straight shoulders and chin held high, and to dance.

Yuuri would have, just as he'd been doing for the past hour, but necessity demanded a brief respite.

In the middle of Minako's back room studio, Yuuri dropped onto his haunches, arms wrapping around his stomach, and tucked his chin until his forehead pressed against his knees.

 _Don't vomit, don't vomit, don't vomit_ , he chanted to himself in a horrified effort to stave off the urge. Swallowing thickly, he struggled to suppress the upwelling bile in his throat.

It had been happening more and more of late. Out of the privacy of the bathroom, sometimes without even the coaxing of his fingers down his throat, the need to bring up whatever lay in his belly assaulted Yuuri as a physical demand. It wasn't unexpected anymore, thought the first time his minimal breakfast had risen unrequested in the middle of the gym he'd all but panicked. It had been that as much as anything that had convinced him to bypass breakfast entirely these days.

This was the first instance in Minako's studio, however. Yuuri knew the reason; Yurio had caught sight of a stall selling squid sticks and demanded an early lunch after they stepped out of the gym. Victor had agreed readily enough that Yuuri almost couldn't say no. Not without seeming 'weird'. He'd discarded his squid stick after a couple of bites, tossing it into the trash as the urge to eat _more, faster,_ rose within him. That compulsiveness triggered panic of its own, and Yuuri dodged it like a fired bullet.

But the mouthfuls had been enough to disrupt his belly, it seemed, and what little was left had a mind to bring itself back up again.

The thought of vomiting across Minako's floor left Yuuri with an overpowering mixture of horror, self-disgust, and terror that only added to the nausea itself. Yuuri didn't know why it happened; being 'good' at this particular skill wasn't supposed to take opportunity into its own hands.

Closing his eyes, Yuuri swallowed once more. The taste of bile had grown as familiar as the toothpaste and mouthwash he used to chase it away, but it hadn't become anymore pleasant. Not at all.

_Don't vomit, please don't vomit, please don't –_

"Are you alright?"

Yuuri snapped his chin up and nearly fell off his toes as he twisted to glance over his shoulder. Minako stood in the doorway, her arms propped on the frame, and regarded him with a slight frown.

 _What did she see?_ Yuuri thought, before he smothered the panicked thought as being irrational. Yuuri hadn't done anything. Not _yet_. There was nothing _to_ see.

Pasting a smile onto his face, he rose to standing and hoped his legs didn't visibly wobble. He swallowed back the last of his lingering lunch and turned away from her to ready himself to dance once more.

"I'm fine," Yuuri said, raising his arms before him. "Just a cramp."

"A cramp?"

_"Un."_

Minako hummed flatly behind him, and Yuuri glanced towards her reflection briefly before refocusing his gaze once more. Music lilted in his ears, and the need to dance, to practice, to push himself and train to be better, rose once more.

Except that, just for a moment, he was caught in the mirror. It could have been the memory of his lunch, the taste on his tongue, and the reminder of what it meant, but he caught sight of himself and his reflection, and Yuuri was momentarily frozen.

Could he see evidence of it in his belly? Or from the dinner last night that he'd eaten more of than he'd wanted to? Had it clung to him, filling out his arms, puffing out his cheeks? Those were the signs, weren't they? For him, it had been said, when he was 'letting himself go', they were the signs. _Did_ he look like that?

Yuuri barely registered he was raising a hand to his cheek until he felt his fingers touch his skin. He swallowed again, this time biting back a different kind of nausea. It _did_ feel different, didn't it? Was that because of dinner the previous night? Or from the lunch? Maybe his body was naturally more capable of clinging to whatever he put into it than most people, and it showed itself more readily. Maybe he was –

"Are you really alright?"

Minako's words, her repeated question, snapped Yuuri's attention back towards her. He hadn't realised he'd stopped smiling, stopped attempting to reassure her, but he couldn't find the strength to do so again.

"I'm fine," he said simply.

Minako's expression was unexpectedly hard in the ensuing silence. That silence itself was strange, for she'd never been a quiet person. Fierce and protective, and an aggressive supporter and competitor herself, but never silent. Except for now, and then when she spoke, because her voice was uncharacteristically hushed.

"You don't look very well."

Yuuri blinked. "What?"

"Are you not feeling well?" Minako took half a step into the room, the tension in her shoulders at odds with the music that still hummed in accompaniment. "You're looking tired. And worn out."

"I'm maybe a little tired," Yuuri said, and attempted a smile once more. The feeling of his cheek beneath his fingers was something of a deterrent to good humour. "But I'm fine, it's not –"

"And thin," Minako said, cutting him off. Another step, and her frown deepened, her arms folding across her chest. "Are you training too much?"

This time, Yuuri could smile, if a little self-deprecatingly. "Is it even possible to train too much?"

"It is, and you know it. Yurio can stand as an example of that if you even need one."

"Yurio would never admit to needing a break," Yuuri said, turning back to the mirror. "Even when we dragged him on holiday he never agreed that he needed it."

"I'd wager he listens to his body a little more these days, though," Minako said quietly.

Yuuri nodded slowly as he raised his arms in preparation once more. "If he does, then that's a good thing. He's never had a good understanding of his limits." Then Yuuri stepped sidelong, rose on his toes, and skipped into the rapid-paced allegro that he'd been practicing all morning.

For a time, Minako didn't speak, and Yuuri almost forgot she was even watching. He trained his gaze upon his legs, upon his extensions, because that would help him with his skating. He threw jumps and leaps into the makeshift routine, because that would help him too. It was easier, less objectionable, to watch his reflection as he danced, as he did something useful, than in to stare at himself in stasis. The problems he saw… they were more easily fixable if they were dancing problems.

"You'd tell me, wouldn't you?" Minako finally said, speaking into the finishing chords of the song as it drew to a close.

Yuuri glanced over his shoulder to where she'd propped herself upon the barre hugging the wall. Her arms were still folded, her face still hard, and she appeared almost as though she wasn't blinking. "Sorry?"

"If something was wrong," Minako clarified. "If you need help with something, anything, you'd tell me – wouldn't you?"

"Minako-san –"

"I mean anything, Yuuri." Minako's brow crinkled, her jaw physically tightening. "I know it might seem like an empty platitude, but I'm familiar with certain… things that athletes can struggle with. Especially being a ballerina; a lot of the girls I danced with, they were –"

"Minako-san, it's fine," Yuuri interrupted her, turning and raising his hands in desperate placation. His heart had abruptly skipped a beat before kick-starting at a thundering pace that was surely audible from how heavily it battered against his ribs. Somehow, he knew what Minako was talking about. That she knew, or she at least suspected what he did. What he was _doing_. That she had a problem with it and thought it was wrong, even though Yuuri knew it was what he needed.

Some people might think that exercising so much was _too_ much. Some might consider eating less, skipping meals, and bringing up those they did eat to be wrong, or bad, or unhealthy, and for most people it was. But most people weren't Yuuri. They didn't know what he and his body needed, and they didn't see the signs in the mirror that leapt out at him like hazard lights. He couldn't expect them too, which was part of the reason he couldn't explain it to anyone.

"You're worrying too much," Yuuri said, and necessity demanded a smile, a disregarding shrug, so he gave it. "I'm a little tired, yes, and you're right, I haven't been feeling so well lately, but it's always like that when championships are just around the corner."

"Just around the corner?" If anything, Minako's frown deepened. "You're still months away, Yuuri."

"Months is hardly anything when my routine isn't coming together quite right," Yuuri said. He shook his head. "Thank you for the offer, but please, don't worry. I'm really fine."

With that, he turned back to the mirror once more, tuned back into Bebe's song, and picked his feet up to dance once more. He thought Minako still watched for a time, but he couldn't be sure, and when he finally stopped for the day, sweating and breathing heavily as he flicked off the radio, she didn't bring the subject up again.

* * *

Yuuri scrubbed at his face, rubbing the heels of his palms into his gritty eyes. He was tired, physically and mentally drained, and that tiredness provoked frustration.

"I know," he said, as much to himself as in reply to the question posed of him. "I know I just have to practice more. It's just frustrating."

"You shouldn't worry so much," Victor said through a yawn. "You can do quads just fine. It was just a bad day."

Yuuri buried his head into his pillow a little, but it didn't do much to relieve his irritation. It was all he could do to bite back on the sharp retort that threatened to well forth, that it was alright for _Victor_ to disregard his worry, because he was a master on the ice. Because Victor didn't flub his jumps, or if he did it looked practically intentional. Victor didn't deserve that. He didn't deserve to be the victim of Yuuri's irrational anger.

The anger itself was an unfamiliar feeling. Yuuri was used to frustration, to agitation, and to the occasional bout of aggressive competitiveness that rose within him in the midst of a championship. But anger? This directionless, floundering anger that seemed to rise at the barest of provocations? He hadn't experienced it before and he didn't know what to do with it. Even worse, it was welling more and more often of late

It was because of his routine, Yuuri knew. His routine that spoke of everything he felt for the upcoming competitions. His persistence and his commitment. His loyalty to figure skating that embodied and embraced his loyalty to each other aspect of his life: his hometown, his career, his friends and family. Victor.

That illustration was part of the reason it was so frustrating. How could Yuuri possibly bring himself to stand before the sidelong glances and frowns, the murmured speculations that he should have given the year a break, and questions of why was he still pushing himself when he was past his prime. How could he stand tall and determined against those words when he couldn't even fully express his commitment through his performance?

That day, his jumps had been wobbly. His attention was inexplicably unfocused, so he'd messed up his footwork. His pacing had been off, and the music, fierce, and upbeat, as strongly pervasive as Yuuri should have been himself, had rung discordantly in his ears. It felt _wrong_.

What was worse was that, though Victor might claim it was simply 'a bad day', Yuuri knew it wasn't. He knew he'd been making mistakes all week, and it wasn't just in his skating. His morning run had been cut short when he'd tripped up the stairs and bruised his knee, walking instead of running the rest of the leg. The bruise's dull throbbing had died by the time he'd reached the gym later that morning, but the memory still vexed him. He still regretted having it cut short.

He'd stumbled through the makeshift routine at Minako's the day before, and the day before that he'd overestimated and nearly injured himself when his hands had slipped hefting a dumbbell. What was most frustrating about that incident was that the weight hadn't been any heavier than usual. There was no reason Yuuri should have struggled with it.

All of it amounted to one tight knot of frustrated anger curling in his gut, and Yuuri couldn't seem to find any way to unravel it. He knew he was snapping, was cruelly short with his family and Victor, and Yurio's talking back to him was nothing if not indication of that. But he couldn't help himself.

And one of the worst mistakes? Barely days ago, Yuuri had binged upon more than he'd eaten in weeks. He'd spent nearly an hour in the bathroom afterwards, struggling to rid himself off it, and had barely eaten the following day, but he could swear he still felt the weigh of it in his belly.

Sighing, Yuuri scrubbed his hands over his face. He was tired, wanted to sleep, but his mind was whirling with potential failure and fulfilment of disheartening expectations. "I'm sorry," he muttered, voice muffled behind his hands.

"Why?" Victor asked quietly.

"For messing things up."

"Hm." For a moment, Victor remained silent. Then Yuuri felt his fingers grasped and tugged from his face, captured in Victor's hands. He couldn't quite look his way, but Yuuri was sure Victor was staring at him. "As your coach, I'm satisfied that you recognise your mistakes. That's how we fix them, yes?"

"Yes," Yuuri agreed without confidence.

"But as more than your coach," Victor raised Yuuri's hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. "Please don't worry so much, Yuuri. You know you're a beautiful skater, and that you can do it."

 _Am I?_ Yuuri thought. _Can I?_ He'd won competitions, was internationally ranked, but Yuuri was growing increasingly less confident in his abilities of late. His Free Program was fast-paced and dextrous, demanding and intense. Could he really perform up to scratch?

"Not as much as you, though," Yuuri murmured instead, finally glancing at Victor sidelong. "You're beautiful to watch."

Victor's smile was a little crooked. "Complimenting on the back of self-criticism? Yuuri, that's unfair."

"Eh?"

Victor kissed the back of his knuckles once more before burying his own head into the pillow a little. "You know, I've always loved it when I can hear the crowds cheer for me, and encourage me. I've always loved performing for them and entertaining them. So I wonder… why it always feels even better to have you as the one saying it."

Yuuri rolled onto his side, blinking up at Victor through the darkness that swathed the room. His parents hadn't objected to their sharing, hadn't even commented upon it, and Yuuri thought that said something of the situation. They'd never objected in the first place to him having his lover in all but constant company, but this seemed like evidence of their approval.

Yuuri loved that. He loved it because sleeping alongside Victor was… He'd missed it sorely in the weeks they'd been apart.

Reaching his free hand up towards Victor's forehead, Yuuri drew a gentle line across his brow, flicking his fringe aside. Victor smiled sleepily, eyes fluttering closed beneath his touch. "Is it really a compliment if it's the truth?" Yuuri asked.

"Hm," Victor hummed. "Otherwise it's just empty flattery."

Yuuri drew his finger across Victor's brow once more, those of their other hands tangling together. For a moment, his concerns were shunted aside as he was faced with the reality of his situation. How blessed he was, how lucky, to not only have the chance to skate alongside Victor, skate _with_ him, but to sleep beside him at night. How lucky, to bear witness to the creation of his masterpieces and watch them blossom into fruition, and better yet, to skate those that Victor helped him design.

Years of doing so hadn't dampened Yuuri's incredibility of it. Not even slightly. If anything, it had only grown more profound.

When Victor finally blinked his eyes open once more, meeting Yuuri's gaze, his smile widened. "You're looking at me like that again," he said.

"Like what?" Yuuri asked.

"All sweet and happy, even though it's so late at night that we shouldn't be getting euphoric." Victor hummed complacently, shuffling across the minimal distance between them and sliding his arms around Yuuri's waist until he curled around him. "It's very cute."

"I'm not the cute one, you're –"

"No, you are." Victor pressed his face against the side of Yuuri's head. "Very cute."

"Victor –"

"Very cute."

Yuuri smiled himself. Victor was wrong in that regard, at least. When he was as dopey in his sleepiness as he'd become, he was definitely the cute one. The little hum he uttered as he drifted towards sleep, almost a mew, widened Yuuri's smile further.

Only for it to stutter and die as Victor spoke once more in his mumbled drowsiness. "Hey, Yuuri. You're getting kind of skinny."

Yuuri froze. He felt his shoulders tense, and his fingers curled where they'd hooked absently into the front of Victor's nightshirt. "What?"

Victor, still half asleep, moved his hands lazily up Yuuri's back and along his spine. Yuuri could feel the warmth of his fingertips through his own shirt, the play of the caress across the muscles in his back. "You are. You should eat more. Have you -?" He paused to yawn once more, the warmth of his breath kissing Yuuri's forehead, but Yuuri hardly felt it. "Have you been taking your measurements at the gym?"

It was spoken so absently, barely attending to his own words, that Yuuri almost thought it was a farce entirely. That Victor was pretending to be half-asleep to ask him questions that set Yuuri's teeth on edge and a tremble into his limbs from the ferocity of his sudden tension. For a brief moment, a brief, confusing moment, Yuuri wasn't sure just why he felt so abruptly horrified, so distressed, and wracked with the sudden need to roll from the bed and climb away from Victor immediately.

It was only as Victor's breaths slowed, easing into the gentle puffs of real slumber, that he understood. It was horrifying because Victor had said something. It was distressing because he'd chosen to, which meant that he'd noticed. He must have noticed that Yuuri… that he was…

 _Does he realise I'm feeling self-conscious?_ Yuuri thought, his mind jumping and starting in a barely explicable frenzy. _Is that why he's trying to reassure me? Has he noticed that I'm trying to eat less to cut down because the evidence of letting myself go is so obvious?_

Yuuri swallowed thickly. The nausea in his throat, an echo of that which had been brought up only hours before and still stung in his oesophagus, was for a different reason this time. Had Yuuri taken his measurements at the gym? Of course he had. How could he not? He saw the dissatisfying evidence in the mirror, so how could he not check? How could he not be sure?

That it didn't add up much of the time was inconsequential. Yuuri had lost a little weight, but he hadn't gained all that much additional muscle – or so the scales said. It was a slap in the face, and meant that Yuuri had to train only harder.

But that didn't matter. Not at that moment, and not to Victor, because Victor wasn't to know such things. But had he realised anyway? Had he discovered that, regardless of what those numbers said, Yuuri knew there was a problem each time he caught sight of himself, and that he had to fix it? Was that why he tried such reassuring flattery, throwing words like 'skinny' around, that stung more than comforted?

The thought was horrible. It twisted Yuuri's gut, and he felt the sudden compulsive urge to flee to the bathroom and shove his fingers down his throat. It was comforting, that routine. Maybe a little strange, a little irrelevant to the discussion Victor had begun before falling to sleep, but it helped.

More than that, though, Yuuri suddenly wanted to climb out of Victor's hands and away from his touch. Victor shouldn't be feeling that. He shouldn't be able to feel all of the imperfections that Yuuri's shirt couldn't quite hide. It was wrong. It felt _so wrong_.

Yuuri waited. Tense and barely breathing, he waited until Victor's breathing deepened further and his sleep-laden looseness became floppiness. Then, sinking backwards, Yuuri extracted himself from Victor's grasp and climbed from the bed. He perched on the edge of the mattress for a moment, scrubbed at his arms with both hands to wipe them of the discomforting tingle, only to immediately drop them as the feeling of his skin set his teeth on edge once more.

It felt disgusting. Not quite as discomforting or distressing as Victor's touch had been, nor quite so shameful or embarrassing, but disgusting all the same. It had only become more so over the past weeks, and Yuuri was all but tripping as he ran silently towards the bathroom once more. It was all he could do to rid himself of the feeling.

It didn't help all that much. So late in the night, hours after eating, purging didn't really help. But it felt a little better, and when Yuuri eventually hauled himself off the bathroom floor and staggered from the room, the repulsed roiling in his belly had shifted to more familiar twisting.

He didn't return to his bedroom and Victor. Not yet. Instead, slipping outside, Yuuri pressed his back against the cool wall of the outdoor bath area, wrapping his arms around his knees and breathing in deep, slow gasps to force away the lingering distress still twitching through him. It was cool as autumn descended, and Yuuri felt the chill raise gooseflesh on his skin in a way that managed to ease some of the discomforting heat throbbing through him.

When Makkachin arrived, slinking to Yuuri's side in tentative steps, Yuuri didn't send him away. He might have wanted – _needed_ – to escape his room, but Makkachin was just a dog. He didn't think the same way, wouldn't look at Yuuri the same as a person would.

Flopping to the ground at Yuuri's side, the old dog butted his nose against Yuuri's toes. Yuuri dropped a hand to his fuzzy head and curled his fingers into the tight curls.

"Don't tell Victor," he found himself whispering, and for the life of him, Yuuri couldn't understand why that necessity felt so utterly important.


	6. August

"Hi, girls! Have you finished school already?"

At Victor's exclamation, his voice echoing across the expanse of the rink, Yuuri paused in his turn and glanced towards him. In a sweeping glide, Victor ceased his own sequence and took himself towards the boards. He all but hung over the wall as he propped his elbows on top and leant towards where Axel, Lutz, and Loop had appeared. The three girls, nothing if not enthusiastic Victor fans in the most demanding manner, were clamouring to speak over one another.

"Victor, you came early today? You should have told us and we would have –"

"- your music, right? Did we just miss your routine? Will you show us –?"

" – said you'd help me with my camel spin if I –"

It was an explosive mixture of excitement, demands, and eager questioning the likes that only children could perform, and Yuuri found himself smiling. The girls had taken to Victor more intensely this year than they had before. Yuuri suspected it had more than a little to do with their heightened interest in figure skating; while it had always been strong, the competitive streak and pursuit of performance hadn't been so much a repertoire of their own skating hobbies last time he'd visited home.

In the past, Victor might not have been as ready to offer a word or a moment of his time in helping them. Or he might have, but he likely wouldn't have been all that much of a benefit. That had changed a little over the years; while Yuuri still firmly believed that Victor was far more suited to competing than coaching others, he'd gotten better. Definitely.

Over his shoulder, Yuuri heard the sharp click of a tongue. "Wasting time… We've hardly done anything today. Would it kill him to focus a little?"

Yuuri glanced towards where Yurio drifted past behind him, lips pursed and frowning towards Victor and the girls bouncing in step as if on springs. His frown deepened slightly as Victor exclaimed overloudly, his words followed moments later the chatter of voices and an outburst of laughter.

Yuuri held his tongue. He didn't wholly agree with Yurio; they _had_ been training for nearly two hours already, with the second half of that time in isolation from the general public, and Victor as much as any of them. Besides that, the girls brought a sense of excitement and joviality to the rink. If anything, Yuuri thought that their animation was a benefit, their enthusiasm providing just a little more supportive motivation.

It was almost like having a cheer squad. An admittedly picky, critical, and highly opinionated cheer squad.

And yet at the same time, Yuuri didn't completely disagree with Yurio, either. Rather, he found a big part of him agreed all too readily, because…

_Opens starts in barely a handful of weeks._

Yuuri felt his smile fade at the thought. The opens, and the championship that would follow and build upon the results of the competition, would signal the start of the upcoming season. Yurio would be heading back to Saint Petersburg soon, and Victor likely with him. In all likelihood, Yuuri would accompany with them. He'd loved visiting home, and was firmly embedded in his routine in an effort to train himself, but the facilities and companionship of the skaters back in Russia were beneficial in a different way. Full immersion in his skating: that was what Yuuri knew he needed.

And he did need it. He sorely needed it.

Endless hours of working out. Morning runs that became less and less of such and more of a 'pre-morning' run with autumn encroaching. Hours in Minako's studio, because Yuuri knew it would help him, and as much time spent on the rink as he could manage. Yuuri had even grown to disregard the awkwardness of public's watching eyes when he, Victor, and Yurio arrived before closing. The opportunity for extra time made it worth it.

But even with his commitment – even with the hours he put in, the single-minded determination, the exclusion of distraction for the more immediate, necessary concern – Yuuri knew he wasn't up to scratch. He was flubbing his jumps more often than he had in months, and it was terrifying. He was making foolish mistakes for reasons he couldn't quite discern, and that was terrifying too. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was the typical nervousness pinned to upcoming competitions and the fear that he would fail.

Or maybe it was because of the nagging, unshakeable voice in the back of his mind that seemed to speak every one of his insecurities with a single, recurring statement.

_Maybe you really have reached your peak and you're on the downhill slide? It wouldn't be impossible. If anything, it's likely._

That thought was the most terrifying. It was what urged Yuuri to haul himself from bed before the sun had even hinted at rising, despite his worrying keeping him up till long after Victor's soft breaths and muted murmurs signalled his own sleep. It was what had him pushing for that extra stretch, those extra minutes, that final practice, before turning in for the night.

It was what had him checking his measurements at the gym more and more frequently of late, too, just to be sure he wasn't letting himself go without even realising it.

It was what had him substantiating on a coffee for breakfast, another instead of lunch most days when he could avoid eating with his friends, and purging any dinner he picked at. He didn't need anything more than that. He'd grown efficient with his diet, knew how long he had to wait to retreat to the bathroom, how long he could spend within, to avoid curious gazes and a question: "Where did you go for so long?"

Some days, the reassurance that Yuuri was doing something to keep himself in shape, something that could beat the possibility of a binge and went beyond simply exercising, was the only way he could bring himself to sit in the dining room of his parents' onsen. It was the only way he could smile and pretend, and all of it… it all helped when he questioned that he really might be on the route to disaster as that journalist's article had claimed months before.

Glancing towards Yurio, Yuuri momentarily placed Victor and his distraction aside. How Victor could manage to be so excitable, so joyful, so reciprocating of the animation the girls thrummed with, was a mystery to Yuuri, but he let him have it. In some ways, it was reassuring to his entire _other_ affliction of concern for Victor's own supposed retirement. He hadn't said anything pertaining to it for weeks, but Yuuri didn't forget. He couldn't.

"Did you want to go through your middle section again?" he asked of Yurio, gesturing vaguely. "You said you wanted to practice the quicksteps, didn't you?"

In Yuuri's opinion, Yurio couldn't really improve in his sequence all that much. He was a well-rounded skater, had always been well-rounded, and if Victor always claimed that Yuuri still had one up on him in his footwork… well, that was Victor's opinion only.

Yurio drew his attention back towards Yuuri and clicked his tongue once more. "It's an annoying sequence."

"It looks impressive," Yuuri said. "And it's different for you, so –"

"I know, I know, trying to be original and surprising and all that." Yurio scuffed the back of his head with a hand, turning idly in a circle. "I don't think I'll ever understand Victor's fixation with originality."

Yuuri didn't reply. Yurio might not understand why wowing the audience in an entirely unexpected manner was important. He did his own kind of wowing simply from stepping onto the ice, by performing such glorious and seamless jumps, leaps, and turns that he captivated his audience. He was much like Victor in that regard; he'd taken the figure skating world by storm just as Victor had himself years before.

Victor was an incredible skater. Was _still_ an incredible skater, and so was Yurio. Yuuri couldn't help but watch them both with a keep eye, attentive of their performances as much for the beauty as in an attempt to learn from them both. Sometimes it was a little hard to climb onto the ice with them with the knowledge that they outweighed him so heavily in flare and skill.

"That's because you're not seeing yourself," Victor had chided Yuuri when he'd mentioned his discomfort. "What makes you think that you're not impressive too?"

Victor was always ready with flattery, just as he was with suggestions and critique. It made it almost hard to believe it was usually exaggeration.

"You're still holding the world record, idiot," Yurio had grumbled on a number of occasions. "Not for long, of course, but stop worrying. The numbers count."

In some ways, Yurio's words were a little more reassuring – until Yuuri was struck by the reminder that records and winning scores were firmly seated in the past. They held nothing upon the skill of _now_. And with age and the accompanying restrictions weighing upon him… how long until Yurio made good his committed challenge?

It felt good to offer a word of advice, or a critical eye of his own, when Yuuri watched Yurio fall back into his routine. Victor was right on that count, at least; Yuuri did know how to place his feet. Or at least he did most of the time. Yurio was taking his third turn of the rink, the quickstep of his motions seeming to sing the music of his routine in its melodious absence, when Victor drew alongside him.

For a moment, they watched Yurio in mutual silence. Then, as he twisted out of a turn, checked himself, then spun in a rapid twist in the other direction, Victor hummed his approval. "See? He couldn't manage that quite so well barely a month ago."

Yuuri nodded, even if he only half agreed. Yurio's 'not quite so well' was all but equivalent to everyone else's best. "He slips in his Choctaw turns so fast you can hardly believe it."

A smile touched his lips as Victor glanced towards him. "I think he learnt that from you."

Yuuri blinked, glancing sharply towards Victor. "What?"

"He was watching you for ages last year, you know." Victor's smile unfurled like a flower. "You didn't notice?"

"I… what?"

"Yes, yes, and he asked me to show him because he couldn't bring himself to ask you." Victor shook his head. "Too prideful, sometimes. There's no shame in asking an admired competitor for suggestions."

Yuuri nodded slowly, a little disbelievingly, as he turned his gaze back to Yurio right before Yurio leapt into a jump. Yuuri himself had certainly asked enough people for their help. Why hadn't Yurio just asked him directly? He'd asked for other suggestions before, and a Choctaw was far from being a particularly difficult manoeuvre, depending upon what it led from and into. So why…?

"You're too much of a competitor in his eyes sometimes, I think," Victor said, as though reading his mind.

"That just sounds silly," Yuuri murmured.

"But true."

"Then why did he ask you?"

Victor was silent for so long that Yuuri glanced towards him. His smile had died a little, fading, though not in its sincerity. He cocked his head almost expectantly, and Yuuri felt his stomach seize. "Victor, you're not referring to –"

"Oh, calm down, calm down," Victor overrode him, slinging and arm around Yuuri's neck and tugging him into his side. Yuuri skittered on the ice only briefly. "You're such a worrier sometimes."

Yuuri swallowed the sickening feeling rising in the back of his throat. Almost compulsively, he reached for Victor's waist, hooking his arm around him in return as though to cling to him would erase any possibility of Victor drifting away. Victor told him he wouldn't. He said he'd never leave, that they were stuck with one another, and that the rings Yuuri had bought in Barcelona years before stood as testament to that fact.

But Yuuri couldn't help feeling it at times. It scared him a little, to think of skating without Victor. It was perhaps even more terrifying than the thought of ceasing competing himself.

 _Please don't leave me,_ he thought, fingers curling into Victor's shirt as he stared across the ice at Yurio. He barely saw the fluid axel Yurio turned. Victor, on the other hand, seemed to have resumed his bright heartiness.

"The girls are getting very invested in their own skating," he said, and a glance his way found him smiling widely once more. He turned that smiled from Yurio towards Yuuri. "We have groupies!"

Yuuri couldn't help but smile a little in return, even if he didn't really feel it. "You mean _you_ have groupies."

"There's three of them, so technically there could be one for each of us."

"I'm pretty sure it's you they dote on the most."

"Because I give them things?" Victor cocked his head again, his smile growing teasing. "Free performances?"

"Even Yurio gives them that," Yuuri said, gesturing to where Yurio drew out of a layback spin with a flourish. "The girls like you because you give them attention, I think."

"Everyone likes attention."

"In different ways, maybe."

"We'll make first class skaters of them, I promise! Axel's very good with her spins already, and Lutz seems to have a natural gift for anything on one leg. Loop I think is the most well-rounded, or she would be if she was as confident on the ice as she is off it, and I think that…"

Yuuri felt his smile grow sincere as he listened to Victor's animated chatter, the arm around his shoulders squeezing him slightly in his enthusiasm. That he could easily differentiate the three girls and pinpoint each of their skills when they were so often simply grouped as 'the triplets' was likely at least half of the reason for their adoration. The other half…

Victor might be more competent – more _glorious –_ as a competitor, but he'd certainly grown as a coach.

"… think Yuuko-san and Takashi-san would let me steal them to take back to Russia when we leave?" Victor finished. He raised a thoughtful finger to his chin. "It's an idea. If we're only going to be here for a few more weeks, then –"

"Oi," Yurio barked from across the rink where he'd begun to a modified rendition of his short. He paused mid step, feet planted. "Are you two going to talk all day or actually practice?"

He didn't wait for a reply before, with an extension of his arms, he threw himself back into his routine. Victor hummed beneath his breath. "Ah… Yurio can be so prickly sometimes. We've been told, Yuuri."

Yuuri smothered his smile, dropping his head briefly to Victor's shoulder. Just for a moment, he closed his eyes, and in that moment he felt the day's work settle upon him. It might be nice to take a break, but…

"Are you tired?" Victor said, turning his own head towards Yuuri and pressing a kiss onto his brow. "You've seemed tired a lot lately. Did you want to take a break for a while?"

… But Yuuri couldn't do that. He couldn't slow down. He couldn't afford to.

Dropping his arm from Victor's waist, Yuuri shifted away from him slightly. He didn't like it when Victor said things like that, which he did often of late. That Yuuri looked tired, or pale, or that he felt a 'thin'. Yuuri didn't like any of it, because it all felt too much like half-truths and reassurances. He didn't know if Victor had perceived the depth of his nearly debilitating worry for the upcoming championships, but he still didn't like it. Not at all.

Skimming backwards, Yuuri drew away from him with a shake of his head and an attempt to rekindle his smile. "No, I'm fine. Let's practice."

"So much enthusiasm between the two of you," Victor said, planting his hands upon his hips and tipping his head fondly. "Where do you find the energy?"

It was all talk, of course, because until the girls had burst into the rink, voices echoing and demanding attention, Victor had been just as lively. Yuuri shook his head but otherwise ignored the teasing. "You'll watch me, Victor, right? Won't you?"

"Only always," Victor replied, and that was good enough for Yuuri.

He threw himself into his routine, and when he jumped – when he spun and leapt into a split leap the likes he'd been honing in Minako's studios as much as on the ice – he landed it with all he had.

* * *

Yuuri's phone rung when they were in the entrance hall of the ice castle.

Taking a step backwards from the front counter, he excused himself from the flurry of conversation passing between Victor, Yuuko, Yurio, and the three girls. It was evening already, but Yuuko's insistence upon finishing homework had Axel, Lutz, and Loop too late to really hang off Victor and demand his attention.

"It's not fair –"

"Never get to –"

"If we'd been allowed _earlier_ –"

"All three of you, pipe down," Yuuko scolded in a manner far sharper than Yuuri had thought her capable of when they were children together. "You're imposing upon their training time enough as it is."

"You're all so noisy," Yurio said, draping himself languidly across the counter. It might have looked casual to anyone else, but Yuuri thought he seemed to be favouring his braced knee just a little. Was it paining him?

"Yurio, you can't scold others for being loud," Victor said overly brightly. "That's called hypocrisy."

"Oi, you –"

"Maybe tomorrow," Victor continued, disregarding Yurio's pouting grumble. "If we have time, maybe we can see what we can do?"

"You should be working on your own routine," Yurio muttered, though it was without any real heat. Victor _did_ train as hard as anyone. He _did_ practice, and regardless of the comments that triggered Yuuri's worry like flint sparking a fire, Victor still grew so engrossed in his skating at times that it was impossible to think he might consider quitting competing. Figure skating was as much Victor's life as it was Yuuri's and Yurio's. To quit would be to destroy who he was.

"You don't have to, Victor," Yuuko said, hands clamped to the top of Axel and Lutz's heads as though to keep them firmly pinned in their seats. "It's very kind of you, but they shouldn't be demanding free coaching."

"Oh, who said anything about it being for free?" Victor said, arching an eyebrow. "I thought you three had promised to be my slaves for the near future as repayment."

The girls' outbursts, whether in objection or agreement, were lost to Yuuri as his phone buzzed in his pocket. Ducking backwards, stuffing a finger into his other ear to muffle the exclamations behind him, Yuuri pressed it to his ear. "Hello?"

"Yuuri?" Minako's voice filtered down the line. "Are you -? What was that?"

'That' was a loud _BANG_ as someone appeared to fall from their chair. A glance towards the counter found only two of the triplets still in view with one of them apparently fallen rather abruptly to the ground. Victor had burst into laughter, was joined by the two remaining girls, while Yurio leant over the counter as if to assess the damage.

"Did you kill yourself?" he asked without an ounce of real concern. Yuuko had a hand over her face, shaking her head.

"Yuuri?" Minako asked.

"Nothing," Yuuri replied, turning away and his attention back to his phone. "I think Lutz just fell off her chair."

"Are you still at the rink, then?"

"We're just leaving," Yuuri said, taking a further step from the counter as someone – likely Lutz – exclaimed in a tone of indignation that was barely decipherable as words. "What's up?"

"Nothing much," Minako replied. "I was just going to ask if you wanted to come around to the bar for dinner tonight. Drag Victor and Yurio as well, if you'd like. Yuuko, Takashi, and the girls too, if they want to."

Yuuri barely heard the suggestion. After the word 'dinner' his mind all but flat-lined. Dinner was… Dinner had become a problem.

Yuuri knew that was a bad thing. On an objective level, he knew it was a problem that 'dinner' equated to 'near panic'. He'd experienced guilt, shame, and discomfort in the past because of food, from the occasional stress-induced binge that didn't do anything but ease the anxiety of the moment before it weighted him further both physically and mentally. But this, now – this was different.

It was as though Yuuri walked a tightrope whenever he stepped into a dining room. The assault of smells that were so rich and flavoursome that it made him feel sick rather than hungry, the steaming array of dishes, the willing offering and the lack of suppression. Yuuri was on a strict diet, knew he had to maintain it, to keep in shape, to hold himself together, and to chew away at any ounce of weight that might hold him down. He _needed_ to lose it. But when that food was spread before him…

That tightrope was loose and wavering as Yuuri balanced between withholding the compulsion that irrationally seemed to take a hold of him and the need to eat enough to avoid drawing the eyes and raising curious eyebrows. His mother's questioning, "Are you not going to have anything more, Yuuri?" and Victor's, "Have you already eaten? I didn't even notice," struck him harder than such careless and all but nonchalant words should have.

It would have been easier to avoid dinner entirely. To avoid the kitchen, the dining room, and any situation where bingeing was a possibility. Yuuri hadn't fallen prey to the urge in weeks, had tightened his grasp upon himself in an iron fist out of necessity, but the need was still there. He would slip into the bathroom out of similar necessity afterwards anyway, but the need was _still there._ Bringing it all back up again, even if it was almost easy in its familiarity, wasn't preferable to avoiding the situation at all.

When Minako offered, Yuuri felt his gut clench in distressed anticipation. He swallowed thickly, wrestled with good sense, and found himself struggling. Eating wasn't the whole of his problem at the moment, and wasn't the whole of his solution, either. Keeping up his rigid exercise schedule, his hours of practice, and his further hours of discussion with Victor and Yurio about the upcoming competitions were all significant… but eating was the most changeable aspect of it. It was the hardest to maintain with consistency.

"Yuuri?"

Yuuri swallowed again, his throat convulsing and his gag reflex seeming to loosen with the barest flavour of bile. "Sorry?" he asked.

"Are you alright?"

" _Un_." Yuuri glanced over his shoulder to his friends, to where Yurio was actually smiling slightly at Yuuko's suddenly brightened expression, and where the triplets chattering amongst themselves. Victor seemed to feel his gaze and turned briefly towards him. He flashed Yuuri his own smile, tipped his head questioningly, and Yuuri waved his consideration aside. "Sorry, I just got distracted."

"Distracted…" Minako trailed off. A pause, and then, "So, will you come?"

"To dinner?" Yuuri said as casually as he could manage.

"Yes. If you want to."

"Um…" Yuuri glanced over his shoulder once more, almost desperate. He'd gotten into the habit of eating – or avoiding eating – at his parents' onsen. It was routine: to avoid, to pick as minimally as possible, and to excuse himself at the earliest opportunity. He didn't know how he would manage that sequence at Minako's bar. "I'll have to ask Victor and Yurio. I don't know, but I think they might prefer to head back for the night, so… I mean, it's been a pretty big day and –"

"If you're tired, don't worry about it," Minako said easily. "It was just a suggestion, since I close earlier on Tuesdays. I feel like you haven't been around in a while, is all. It feels strange."

Strange. Weird. They were almost the same thing. Yurio's words, spoken in passing weeks before, immediately leapt to Yuuri's mind, and he almost flinched with a spark of panic. Why it mattered, Yuuri didn't quite know. Why it was so necessary to keep his habits, his routine, and what he did from his friends, Yuuri couldn't say. And yet he did, because he suspected that they wouldn't understand.

Yuuri had to eat less out of necessity. He had to train more, train harder, because he _needed_ to. He had to purge his belly after he ate, because even though he didn't binge all the time and had even managed to endure for a time without incident, he had to compensate for the moments when he did. It was logical.

He simply suspected that people like Victor, like Minako and Yuuko, and maybe even Yurio, might not agree with his understanding.

When Minako said it 'felt strange', warning sirens immediately wailed in Yuuri's head. He was stuttering out a reply almost without thought. "No, no, no, that's alright! You're right, you're… I haven't been to visit you for a while. Thank you for inviting me. I'll ask them."

"You don't have to come if you don't want to, Yuuri," Minako said, a frown in her voice.

"Not at all! I'd love to. I'm sure Victor will be enthusiastic enough to come along, and Yurio might. I'll ask and see you soon?"

Minako was silent for a moment before replying slowing. "Okay. If you're sure."

"Of course." Yuuri smiled and hoped his false joviality was effectively transferred through the phone. "Thanks again."

Victor turned towards him as Yuuri stepped to his side. "What was that?" he asked.

Yuuri slipped his phone into his pocket, clenching his fingers around it in the privacy it afforded. His fingers shook just a little with rising concern that he couldn't quite rationalise but felt nonetheless. "Minako's asked us to dinner at the bar. Did you want to come?"

Victor's small smile widened. "Really? Of course!"

 _I knew it_ , Yuuri thought with a mental wince. "You're welcome to come as well, Yurio. You and the girls too, Yuu-chan."

"Are you kidding?" Yuuko said before any of the girls could get a word in. "On a school night?"

" _Kaa-san_!" Axel, Lutz, and Loop chorused in blatant complaint.

Yuuko ignored them. She spared Yuuri a smile. "Thanks anyway. Maybe on the weekend?"

Which was how Yuuri found himself sitting at a table in Minako's bar alongside Victor, Yurio, and Minako barely an hour later. Sitting – and all but writhing in discomfort.

Yuuri loved Minako's bar. He loved the familiarity just as much as he appreciated the styling, the comfortable clutter and shaded darkness that somehow managed to avoid gloominess. He loved that it was oftentimes filled with noise but loved as much that it could be sedate and homely, hushed to a hum of murmured voices and the music that Minako always cracked on as evening fell.

But not that night. Yuuri hadn't really been to Minako's bar in weeks, and that time away had left its mark. He felt as though his skin was prickling, his fingers itching with the need to scratch it off, and his legs twitched with a similar need to rise to his feet and depart as soon as possible.

And the reason for that was the wealth of dinner spread before him.

Minako's Snack Bar was typically home to Western-influenced take-out, packaged goods, and sandwiches that Minako purchased in bulk more than she had her part-time cook throw together. In the evenings, however, as had only been an addition in recent years, the spread of _yoshoku_ had made itself available. To Yuuri's understanding, Minako even cooked some of the Western-style dishes herself.

Fried food was a problem. For Yuuri, it was a huge problem. It was heavy, rich, and left a lather upon his tongue that wasn't even fully swept clean when the half-digested meal was brought back into his mouth to be expelled down the nearest toilet. That Minako's spread was peppered with _kaki_ fry, the oysters thick in breadcrumb jackets, _korokke_ so fit to bursting with mashed potato that their own jackets were all but peeling loose, and _omurice_ tinged a rich yellow with heaped butter…

Once, Yuuri would have loved it, and a part of him still smelled the steaming aromas with appreciation. The other part, however, the far bigger part, was already almost heaving at the thought of it settling in his stomach.

As Yuuri struggled to clamp down upon his near panic, the revulsion that triggered roiling nausea, conversation swept comfortably around him. Victor and Minako had become surprisingly close over the years, a fact that Yuuri attributed to and Victor readily agreed arose from their companionable drinking habits. Yuuri often accompanied Victor to their evenings out, if only to chaperone rather than drink himself, and when the pair loosened their inhibitions beneath liquor, it was something of an enthusiastic performance that they put on for him.

It hadn't arisen yet, but their companionship was evident over the course of the dinner.

"You're so multi-talented, Minako," Victor said, spearing a bite and waving it between his chopsticks. "Who knew you could cook so well?"

Minako waved the compliment aside with her raised wine glass. "I'm hardly anything on Hiroki-san. There's a reason I come around to visit almost every night, you know."

"Not for our glowing company?" Victor asked, pulling a face that was a mixture between a pout and a smirk.

"Well, there's only so much skating talk that I can handle, so it's questionable."

"Liar," Yurio said through a mouthful of rice. "You're usually leading those conversations."

"Hey, don't speak with your mouth full," Minako chided like an older sister. It was an empty reprimand, Yuuri knew, because Minako rarely cared about such things. The poor table habits of some of her customer had beaten it out of her, she'd claimed admitted to him long ago.

Yurio ignored her, gesturing with his own chopsticks. "You still have a thing for Chris Giacometti. Don't pretend you don't."

"You've got a problem with that?"

Yurio switched his attention towards Yuuri. "I thought you said you'd explained to her that he's practically married already."

Yuuri had been hardly attending to their conversation. The act of clasping his chopsticks as tightly as he maintained his grasp upon his rising panic-tinged nausea was consuming enough of his headspace. Couple that with the assaulting smells that had his stomach churning, the sickening rise in his gorge, and the discomfort of the few bites he'd already taken sitting heavily in his gut, and it was all he could do not to rise from the table and excuse himself into the bathroom already.

The act of churning and displacing the food on his plate around in a semblance of 'eating' was a mild distraction, but it barely helped at all to draw Yuuri from his thoughts.

"Oi, _buta_ ," Yurio said, managing to break into his thoughts. "Didn't you?"

Yuuri raised his gaze from his plate, glancing towards Yurio where he studied him with a frown, then to Minako pausing mid drink, and to Victor with his chopsticks at his lips. It was only after a pause that he registered Yurio's words, and he nearly flinched at the nickname that shouldn't have hurt as much as it did. Yurio had called him _buta_ so many times that the meaning of the word barely clung to it anymore, but…

 _He doesn't know it hurts_ , Yuuri struggled to remind himself. _He's not mean enough to say it if he did know. Even if it is accurate, he wouldn't… I don't think he would…_

"What?" Yuuri asked, fingers tightening on his chopsticks in an effort to stop their trembling. They'd been doing that an awful lot lately, and he wasn't quite sure why.

Yurio's frown deepened, and Minako slowly lowered her glass. At Yuuri's side, Victor lowered his own chopsticks with a slight _clink_. He leant into Yuuri's shoulder with his own, dropping his hand to his wrist. "Are you alright, Yuuri? You look pale."

"He always does at the moment," Yurio said, lips twisting. "Are you sick?"

"Are you sleeping enough?" Minako asked. "Eating enough?"

"Maybe we are pushing it a little," Victor said, slowing in his chewing. "I was considering suggesting a break this weekend."

Yurio frowned. "A break? Well, if we have to, but…"

"It's important, both mentally and physically, to keep yourself healthy," Minako said, nodding. "A break's not a bad idea."

Yuuri's gaze snapped between the three of them as they spoke. With each comment, he felt his heartbeat speed up a notch, his breathing catch, and the quiver in his hands intensify until he couldn't quite suppress it anymore.

Sleep more? He didn't have the time, not when he should be training. Eat more? But that would mean he'd gain weight, and gaining weight was one step closer to 'letting himself go'. Taking a break was impossible. Yuuri _didn't have the time_.

He barely managed to keep a hold of himself, but his efforts split and snapped when Minako scooped up a dish and held it out to him. Her gaze what flat when she spoke. "Here. Have some _tonkatsu_. I know it's one of your favourites."

"You should eat more," Yurio said, taking another mouthful of his rice. "People aren't supposed to look like skeletons."

That did it. That was it. The offer of the fried pork, its vaporous aroma assaulting rather than tantalising where Minako proffered it to him across the table. The stares of his friends and Victor's comforting, reassuring, and horribly kind hand dropping onto his arm. Yurio's offhanded words, spoken in such blatant exaggeration that Yuuri almost snapped in distressed frustration. Why did they feel the need to say such things? Was it fun to pretend they didn't see the flaws that Yuuri saw when he looked in the mirror, the pockets of weight that he couldn't seem to shake no matter how little he ate? Why would they _say_ that?

It was all too much, and abruptly, as had been happening more often of late, Yuuri felt the reflux of his dinner rise in his throat. It stung. It burned. It threatened to make a scene –

And he was on his feet in an instant. There was no time to excuse himself. Yuuri didn't even have a chance to lower his chopsticks but simply let them fall to the table in a clatter. Hand slapping over his mouth, he spun, staggered a step, and all but fled towards the bathroom.

He barely made it into one of the narrow stalls before he was heaving. Retching. Not vomiting as his stomach had promised, and in many way, that absence made it worse. Or he wasn't vomiting immediately, anyway. Habit had Yuuri thrusting his fingers down his throat so far he almost choked, but it worked.

The bitter taste of bile. The filthy colour of half-digested meal soaked in bile. The familiar smell, thick and cloying, that Yuuri tried his utmost to vanquish from the bathroom every day, and the equally familiar feeling of cold porcelain as he clutched the toilet bowl with slick fingers.

This, Yuuri was good at. This, he needed, was what helped him and made him feel _better_. It was as necessary as his training, as his dancing, as his hours on the ice or hours in the gym. Yuuri couldn't have explained just why except that he knew that keeping the weight off, keeping a fast hand upon himself – it was what he couldn't do without.

For a long moment, Yuuri was lost in the throughs of breathlessness and gagging, the half-forced and half-instinctive retching and expulsion that his body seemed to heartily agree he needed to rid himself of the contents of his guts. That sharp, bitter taste, thickened with saliva, lined the inside of his mouth, a testament to the momentary success, and it was somehow comforting.

Yuuri hadn't realised he'd closed his eyes until he pried them open to behold the contained mess he'd made. He hadn't realised he'd dropped to his knees until feeling returned to his legs and the cold hardness of the floor seeped through the fabric of his trousers.

He hadn't noticed he'd been followed, either, until Victor spoke.

"Yuuri, you –" Victor's voice choked off, and again when he reattempted. "Are you -?"

A different kind of horror welled within Yuuri. He'd only just lost himself to induced nausea, but it swept through him once more as he dragged his gaze over his shoulder, hand clamping over his mouth.

Victor knelt behind him, legs splayed as though he'd fallen to his knees. His eyes were wide, flooded with brimming distress, and one hand was outstretched to almost touching Yuuri's shoulder as the other pressed against his own mouth.

Yuuri nearly flinched away from him. He nearly pressed himself into the toilet at his side, because the horror of being seen, of having a witness, of what he did being observed – it was terrifying. Such things shouldn't be seen. Yuuri had to do it, _needed_ to do it, but Victor didn't have to see it.

Neither did Minako, standing just behind Victor with her face a hardened, expressionless mask, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Neither should Yurio, either, standing just in sight alongside the bathroom door with his own face utterly blank. He was pale, though, and though he leant against the wall in a semblance of casualness, it looked almost as though he shrunk into its support.

It was horrible. _They shouldn't have seen that._

"You're sick?" Victor finally managed to choke out. "Is that why you haven't been well lately? Not eating or sleeping enough, and… and you…"

"I'm fine, Victor," Yuuri said hoarsely, his voice warbling and muffled through his fingers. His throat ached as it always did in the aftermath of his efforts, but it was nothing alongside the guilt, the shame, of being witnessed. The fingers of his free hand, still grimy and slick, gripped the toilet seat like a lifeline. "It's nothing."

"Doesn't look like nothing," Yurio muttered.

"I'm not sick. It was just –" Yuuri paused, mind blank, clutching at straws. "Just something that I ate, maybe, or – or maybe –"

"Why didn't you tell me you weren't feeling well?" Victor asked, his hand finally crossing the last of the distance between them. His fingers trembled as they clasped Yuuri's shoulder. "You really haven't been for a while, have you? I noticed, but I – I didn't want to say because you'd always… you were…"

He'd deflected. Yuuri knew what Victor was trying to say, even if Victor might not quite know himself. Yuuri deflected, because he couldn't explain, didn't want to, and it was easier to provide an excuse. "I'm not hungry," or "I ate on the way over from Minako's studio," would be far better received than the bare truth. That "I can't eat lunch with you, because if I do than it will weigh me down, and I'll gain the weight that I've tried so hard to keep off, and then I'll start going backwards, and it will impact my skating, and…"

And so much. So much of an explanation wouldn't be possible to attempt. It was better to remain silent, to deflect the conversation. Or it would have been, except that Victor, Minako, and Yurio, had just see him. They'd just witnessed what Yuuri was abruptly more ashamed of than he'd even realised.

Now would have been a good time to speak and deflect, so why couldn't he speak?

"This has been going for a while?" Minako asked, though it didn't sound much like a question.

Victor didn't glance her way as he nodded slowly, almost numbly. He seemed almost unable to blink away from Yuuri. "It… yes. It has, hasn't it, Yuuri? You didn't say anything, but this has –"

"And this?" Minako interrupted, nodding towards the toilet at Yuuri's back. "How long, Yuuri?"

Yuuri winced. He knew he was giving himself away, but he couldn't help himself. He cringed further as Victor's gaze darted over his shoulder, widening slightly, and Yurio seemed to shrink further into the wall. "It's nothing," he said, his voice hoarse for a different reason. "I'm f-fine."

"Don't lie to me, Yuuri," Minako said quietly. "I told you, didn't I? I've seen this kind of thing before."

She had told him. Yuuri remembered, weeks ago, when she'd told him. When she'd guessed and Yuuri had deflected out of necessity once more. He bowed his head, his own shoulders hunching. He wasn't sure if it was himself or Victor that was trembling anymore. "It's not…"

"What?" Minako asked.

"It's not all the time," he lied. "I don't – it's not _all_ the time."

Minako sighed. Yurio made a sound in his throat, turning his gaze sharply aside. Victor swallowed audibly, his eyes widening impossibly further. He was lurching across the distance between them a second later, arms locking around Yuuri and squeezing him so tightly he could hardly breathe.

Yuuri's throat clamped painfully. Burning that was different to that in his mouth, to that which raked his oesophagus, stung his eyes. He couldn't cling to Victor in return, not in his shame, not with the filth still clinging to his fingers and his lips, but he wanted to. He wanted to so badly, if only in an effort to voice some kid of apology.

"I'm sorry," was all he could manage. The words were barely audible even to his own ears, muffled as they were in Victor's shoulder as Victor in turn pressed his face into Yuuri's neck.

It was Minako that replied. He voice was heavy, more of a sigh, and she seemed to deflate as Yuuri glanced towards her in a way he'd never seen before. "It's okay. We'll fix this. We'll turn this around and fix this and – and it will be okay."

Minako knew. Yuuri knew she knew, that she understood what he couldn't say. Victor might not, not fully, but he hurt for what Yuuri had done. Yurio might not wholly grasp it either, but he clearly knew something was wrong, and he wasn't as heartless as he liked to pretend he was most of the time.

Or maybe they did know. Maybe they all understand, and that was what made Yurio frown as he did and Victor's breath catch slightly as he squeezed Yuuri even tighter. Something would have to change, was _going_ to change, because Yuuri couldn't hurt them like that. Not if it made them frown and shake like that.

He only wished he knew how. Yuuri didn't want to upset any of them, but there was a reason he did what he did. A need more than a want. Life and its sudden upcoming rearrangement abruptly became a whole lot more complicated.


	7. September

~|Week 1|~

* * *

"Yuuri?"

Yuuri flinched slightly. He hadn't been sleeping, but the tired daze he'd fallen into blotted out most of his surroundings. The spread of the hot baths before him steamed gently, the faint glow of predawn bathing the gardens beyond, the faintest sheen of dew that dampened the pale rock pavers.

Blinking rapidly to drag himself from his grogginess, Yuuri glanced towards the doorway alongside him. He hadn't heard it open, couldn't even remember if he'd closed it in the first place, but it was cracked ajar now. Victor stood within, eyes heavy with sleep and his robe slightly askew as though he'd only just thrown it on.

Yuuri attempted a smile. He drew his legs a little closed to his chest, wrapping his arms around his knees, and drew his fingers further into the long sleeves of his jumper. It wasn't supposed to be cold, shouldn't have been, but whether it was from his tiredness of something else, Yuuri felt it. He could barely suppress a shiver.

"Hi," he said quietly. "You're up early."

"Not as early as you, it seems." Victor hid a yawn behind his hand before stepping fully through the doorway and sliding it closed behind him. "What time did you get up?"

"Not so long ago."

"Are you still having trouble sleeping?"

Yuuri turned his gaze aside a little sheepishly. "Only a little."

It was a lie. All of it was a lie, or at least a bending of the truth. Yuuri had barely slept that night, just as he'd barely sleep every day that week. As soon as he climbed into bed, his head hitting the pillow and the comforting weight of Victor flopping into the blankets next to him, it was as though a switch was flicked demanding he pause, cling to wakefulness, and think.

It forced him to think about his day, and every glitch in his routine that he'd missed, every error he'd made in his jumps, or his turns, or his deficiencies in his exercise schedule. It made him remember every bite of food he'd eaten, and hate himself for the forced delay before he could rid it from his belly. It was made even worse because Victor, and Minako, and Yurio… they knew now. They knew and they told him to stop.

Yuuri couldn't stop, so he didn't. He just had to be more careful with it to escape their notice, and that deception weighed upon him like lead boots.

Those moments lying awake forced him to remember his brief glances in the mirror when he finally managed to make it to a bathroom and how he could swear he looked different. He could feel how the food had settled upon him, weighing him down just as heavily. The sight called forth the same feeling of guilt that had washed over him each time he stuck his fingers down his throat and struggled to keep himself as quiet as possible as he brought up his dinner.

It was hard. All of it was hard, because Victor now knew. Minako knew, and Yurio knew, and that was horrible, terrible, but Yuuri couldn't stop. He couldn't let himself, even if he had told them all he would try. They asked him to, and asked and asked, all but pleading, and Yuuri agreed. But he couldn't keep his promise. They didn't know. They didn't understand how necessary it was.

Each thought – the guilt, the shame, the frustration, and the self-hatred for what he was doing – rose uncalled for in Yuuri's mind when he fell into bed in an exhausted heap. If he managed to sleep, it was a bonus. That morning had not been one of those bonuses, which was unfortunate given that Yuuri felt utterly exhausted.

Victor lowered himself to the ground at Yuuri's side, crossing his legs and pressing his back against the wall. He regarded Yuuri unblinkingly, and Yuuri hated that stare. He hated it because there was a touch of pain in it, a touch of longing and sadness that Yuuri didn't know how to get rid of. The worst part of it was that Victor didn't even seem to realise he wore it so plainly. Worse, too, that Yuuri know if he _didn't_ lie, the pain and sadness would only grow.

"Do you want to talk?" Victor asked quietly.

Yuuri shrugged. "About what?"

"About anything. Usually you have more trouble sleeping when a competition is coming up, but…"

He trailed off, but Yuuri heard the unspoken words nonetheless _: but championships don't start for another few weeks. But it's more likely to be for another reason. But I want to ask you, to have you tell me, even though I know you don't really want to talk about it._

Yuuri didn't know how much Victor understood. He hadn't asked, and Yuuri wasn't sure he'd be able to bring himself to tell him even if he did. Minako he was sure had a broader understanding, and that was scary enough. But if Victor knew?

The pain and sadness was bad enough already. Victor had always had a tendency to fluctuate between childish delight and mature solemnity by the hour, but that didn't mean Yuuri wanted to induce that change himself. It didn't mean he could bring himself to upset him unnecessarily.

 _He's got his own programs to focus on,_ Yuuri told himself every day when Victor looked at him like he wanted to ask. _I shouldn't – I_ can't _– drag him down with my problems, even if he thinks he wants to know them._

That was what Yuuri told himself. Sometimes he even convinced himself it was the whole truth.

Victor took Yuuri's silence as he always did. And, just as he always did, he leant sideways just slightly until their shoulders touched. A hand rose easily, casually, and without request, Yuuri unlocked his own from his knees and latched onto his fingers. Victor's hands were warm in his grasp.

For a long time, they sat in silence. Only when the first hint of morning light arose, pale and orange-pink, did Victor speak.

"It's very pretty, how it spills all over the baths in the morning," he murmured. "Maybe you could wake me to watch it with you when you get up from now on?"

The unspoken weight behind his words hit Yuuri hard enough that his hand tightened compulsively upon Victor's. " _Iie_ ," he replied just a quietly. "You need your beauty sleep."

"I'm beautiful even without my sleep," Victor said.

Yuuri could see his smile even before he glanced towards him. It was joking, but there was a hint of sincerity to his words, too. Victor wasn't arrogant most of the time, but he did have a confidence and grasp on reality that most people wouldn't admit to.

"True," Yuuri admitted.

"Will you wake me?"

Yuuri turned his gaze out across the baths once more. _Choose your battles_ , arose as a thought in his mind, and he hated himself for it. It felt utterly manipulative, and Yuuri loathed that he'd lowered himself to such deflections. But if Victor asked for this much and Yuuri allowed it, then…

 _Then I can deny him something else that's more important_. Yuuri hated that thought just as much, even if it was true. They were small battles of wits, necessary allowances so that Yuuri could get through the day. He would accept the company of those he cared for, company that almost resembled babysitting, so that he could all but beg for the permission of a morning run that he supposedly 'shouldn't need'. Just as Yuuri accepted his recent disallowance into Minako's studios in the afternoons with the agreement that he wouldn't have food all but forced down his throat.

Small battles. Small victories.

So Yuuri nodded. "Alright. When I'm up, then, I'll wake you."

Victor made a small, satisfied little sound, and his fingers rethreaded through Yuuri's. "Thank you," he murmured, and Yuuri hated himself all over again. That Victor thanked him for such a small thing…

That feeling rose like a physical itch, a jitteriness that demanded release much as the weight of food in his stomach demanded fingers down his throat and active expulsion. Sighing, straightening, Yuuri clambered slowly to his feet. Victor followed him without question, still clasping his hand.

"I think," Yuuri murmured, "I'm going to go for a walk."

"Oh." There was no inflection in Victor's voice. He regarded Yuuri for a moment before, "I'll come?"

Victor posed it as a question, a request, but it wasn't really one. He might not babysit Yuuri as Minako had taken to in attending dinner at Yu-Topia each night, but he was almost as attached to Yuuri as his shadow was. Yuuri didn't hate it, even loved it most of the time, except…

It meant that there wouldn't be a run. It meant that, sometimes, Yuuri had to put off purging after dinner out of begrudging necessity. Yuuri loved Victor, loved him more than anyone else in the world, but this?

It was a problem. Yuuri was still struggling to work out what to do about it.

Still, Yuuri would choose his battles. He'd gotten good at that. Instead of dancing around awkward denials, he nodded. The smile of relief that spread widely across Victor's lips struck him like a slap across his face.

 _I shouldn't be doing this to him,_ Yuuri thought, and it sounded like a sob in the silence of his mind. _It's not fair_. What hurt more was that, despite the pain of that thought, Yuuri knew it wouldn't change anything. He wouldn't change what he did. Not if he could help it.

"I'll bring Makkachin, then," Victor said, starting towards the door and dragging Yuuri after him. "Right?"

"Of course," Yuuri said.

"Are you sure you don't want to try and sleep again?" Victor glanced over his shoulder as he led them from the baths and down the dark hallway inside. "We can just go a little later and still get back before Yurio wakes up."

Yuuri had to smothered the urge to vehemently shake his head. He settled for a small smile instead and shrugged. "I'm fine. I'm not really tired anyway."

Victor's own smile didn't falter, but there was a knowing cast to his gaze. Yuuri had become somewhat aware of that acknowledgement as it surfaced both in Victor's and Minako's gazes of late. He hated it for the hurt he knew accompanied it.

But Victor didn't comment further, and Yuuri allowed the unspoken words to rest between them. There seemed to be a lot of that happening lately, too. Yuuri couldn't decide if that was a good thing or not.

* * *

~|Week 2|~

* * *

"People aren't supposed to look like skeletons."

Yuuri didn't even glance towards Yurio when he spoke, remaining bent forwards and focusing upon tying his skates. His fingers felt strangely fumbling that day, and it took more coordination that he knew it should.

"You've said that before," Yuuri replied absently, because Yurio had. Multiple times over the past fortnight, in fact.

"Because it's true." A soft thump clattered through the change room as Yurio had slumped back against the lockers. Yuuri knew his shoulders were hunching, his frown set and his lips slightly pursed. He'd been wearing that very expression often of late.

"I believe you," Yuuri said noncommittally, tugging his laces tighter.

"You really can't see it, can you?"

"See what?"

"That you look practically like a skeleton."

Yuuri paused in his tying. Finally, he raised his gaze. "I wish you would stop saying that."

"It's true," Yurio said curtly. "And if you could look at yourself properly, you'd realise it as well. You look like you're going to collapse at any minute."

Yurio was more direct than Victor, or at least in this matter. He hadn't learnt, as Victor had years before, that such harsh words could cling to Yuuri like a resounding echo. The journalist's article that Yuuri had read months before still drew forth without request almost every day, those fateful words singing with painful persistence.

Or maybe Yurio simply didn't care. Maybe he deemed his words necessary enough to voice that it didn't matter how much they hurt. That unjustified accusation was what had Yuuri standing, regarding Yurio flatly, and replying just as curtly.

"I'm not," he said. "I know what you're trying to suggest, and I really don't appreciate you exaggerating to make a point. Please stop saying things like that, Yurio."

Yurio's frown deepened and he clicked his tongue. "You're being deliberately blind now." He strode across the room, his skate guards, and, before Yuuri could step away from him, snatched up his arm and waved it almost accusingly between them.

"This here?" he said, shoving Yuuri's hand in his face. "This is a bone."

"Yurio –"

"You shouldn't be able to see that. It shouldn't be sticking out like that."

Yuuri swallowed back a flush of distaste that rose in his throat at Yurio's words. He knew he'd lost weight; he wasn't stupid, and if nothing else, his measurements at the gym were telling. The cut of his clothes was, too, and yes, the bony bits.

But even so, there was nothing wrong with losing the weight when Yuuri had enough to lose. There was nothing wrong with seeing the bones, because what rested alongside them in visible weight justified allowing it. The measurements spoke of reduction, but that was a good thing, and if Yuuri's clothes were a little looser on him, that wasn't a bad thing either. He _had weight to lose_.

Yuuri tugged his hand out of Yurio's grasp. "Please stop that."

Yurio's scowl only deepened. Yuuri didn't know why he'd chosen that moment to speak up, as it hadn't happened at all in the past weeks. If anything, Yurio had seemed somewhat subdued. It could have been thoughtful preparation for returning to Russia in another two weeks, but Yuuri wasn't so oblivious as to think that was the whole reason.

Yurio folded his arms tightly across his chest, glaring through his fringe. "You're an idiot."

"If you say so," Yuuri replied shortly.

"How are you supposed to compete if you're sick?"

"I'm not sick." A flicker of anger welled within Yuuri that he brushed aside. "Please don't say –"

"You are," Yurio interrupted him. "Minako explained enough."

Yuuri folded his lips. He wasn't angry with Minako, and he couldn't be, despite that he'd suspected even before Yurio's words that she'd said something to both Victor and Yurio. They hadn't questioned Yuuri, but they seemed to know enough of the situation nonetheless. They seemed to understand. Either they'd each done their own degree of research into matters that were only vaguely relevant to Yuuri, or Minako had spoken to them.

Yuuri wasn't angry with Minako – but he was more than a little annoyed. And that telling was only a part of the cause of his annoyance.

Taking a steadying breath, Yuuri raised his chin and thrust even that annoyance aside. "If Minako explained it, then you'll also know that you don't need to say anything because I've talked to her too."

"But –"

"It's none of your concern, Yurio. Thank you for your consideration, but please stop saying such things and trying to intervene."

"It _is_ my concern," Yurio said fiercely. "You're supposed to be competing against me, right? That _makes_ it my concern."

For a moment, Yuuri was struck. He leant away from Yurio slightly, and his perspective abruptly shifted. Yurio really did see him as a competitor. He did want him to do his best, to be at his best, to meet as an appropriate challenge. Yurio trained as hard as the next person – harder, even – and he really did want to face the challenge head on with everything that each of them had.

And yet Yurio was… "For someone criticising me for being thin, you're enough of a toothpick yourself, Yurio."

Why the words spilled forth, Yuuri couldn't quite say. They'd risen as thoughts in his mind before, but he'd never thought about it with real attention, never beyond comparing himself so often to Victor and Yurio both and finding himself falling short. But when they spilled forth out, Yuuri was suddenly struck.

It was true. It really was. Yurio was a slip of a kid, and yet Minako, and Victor, and Yurio were telling _Yuuri_ that he was –

"Yurio is practically a pre-pubescent teenager whose body hasn't quite decided how it's supposed to hold itself yet."

Yuuri flinched at the words that echoed through the change room, seeming to resound off the cold walls. Before him, where he'd been frozen in blank-faced surprise, Yurio glanced towards the doorway, and Yuuri followed the line of his gaze. Victor, who had disappeared but moments before ahead of them, had planted himself in the doorway once more. He regarded them both unblinkingly.

Sometimes, with the careless bubbliness that infected him, Yuuri could almost forget that Victor could be so serious. That he could put his foot down, swallow every last ounce of joviality, and face the situation like the veteran athlete and immovable force that he was. It was only in such moments as that that Yuuri was truly reminded, and it struck him sharply enough that he almost winced.

Barely a moment of Victor's attention was spared for Yurio before he was turning his gaze towards Yuuri. He took a single step into the room, the click of his skates overloud in the deafening silence. "Comparing yourself to Yurio is comparing a juvenile cub to a jaguar," he said, his words clipped.

Yurio didn't protest. That was perhaps the most surprising part; far be it from his usual indignant outbursts, Yurio held his tongue. If anything, when he turned back to Yuuri, there was an expectant cast to his expression.

Yuuri struggled to reply in the face of Victor's hooded gaze. He hated it when Victor became like that. _Hated_ it. "There's nothing wrong with being thin if –"

"There is," Yurio interrupted him.

Yuuri drew his gaze back towards him. He pressed his lips together, swallowing another influx of anger. "Being lighter will help with my jumps. I would have thought you'd have considered and appreciated that, Yurio."

"Bullshit," Yurio snapped, abruptly fierce once more. Cub he might be, but he bared his teeth like a lion. "If you really think that, you're stupider than I gave you credit for."

"Yurio," Victor said sharply.

Yurio's expression was livid. His eyes almost sparked, and his jaw visibly tightened. But after a beat, a moment of glaring at Yuuri, he clicked his tongue once more, turned sharply, and strode towards the door. Victor didn't even acknowledge his passing as he disappeared from the room.

The silence that followed was hollow. Victor stared at Yuuri, and Yuuri almost couldn't meet his gaze. Guilt had abruptly replaced his anger as it so often did, both for his words and for provoking such solemnity from Victor. He really did hate to see him so subdued. It wasn't like him.

"He's concerned," Victor finally said.

"Unnecessarily," Yuuri replied lowly.

"He's trying to offer support in his own way, I think, for something that he doesn't really understand."

Yuuri heard the unspoken double meaning of Victor's words but held his silence until Victor continued. "Maybe he sees it as repayment for helping him when he needed it."

"I don't need repayment."

"I didn't say you did."

Another pause stretched, as yawningly hollow as before. Then, "Do you really think that?" Victor almost whispered.

His voice somehow slid seamlessly into the silence, but Yuuri still flinched slightly. He dropped his chin, lowering his gaze to his hands, and his fingers wrapped absently around where Yurio had grasped. Yes, he could see the bones, but right alongside that… it wasn't like there wasn't weight to lose.

"It could just… be of benefit," Yuuri attempted. The excuse sounded faulty to his ears as it never did in his head.

"At the risk of your health and stamina?" Victor said just as quietly as before.

Yuuri twitched again. "I'm just trying to improve my skating."

"It doesn't need to improve."

"It _does_."

"But not like that. Not like this."

Yuuri had nothing more to say to that. How could he, when he knew better than Victor what he needed, what his body needed, and how to get there? What Victor saw, what he perceived – it was different to Yuuri himself. Victor might be his coach, but some things he didn't know.

Victor seemed to understand that Yuuri was done talking. He sighed, and the stoic solemnity of his posture eased slightly with a touch of heaviness. In Yuuri's opinion, that was even worse, and as much because he'd seen it so often of late as for the presence of that sadness itself.

"Let's go," Victor said simply, and Yuuri knew he had raised and was holidng out his hand even before he lifted his gaze. "We'll talk about this another time. For now, let's just skate, yes?"

For all of the intrusions and words, the objections and backhanded reprimands, Yuuri was blessedly thankful that no one questioned that he would persist in skating. Over the past weeks, a silent, concerted effort had been made on both Victor and Minako's part to enforce a reduced regime, and even when Yuuri denied such attempts out of necessity, they persisted.

But skating… there was no avoiding that. Victor loved skating himself and knew Yuuri well enough to understand that to forbid it would be to kill him.

* * *

~|Week 3|~

* * *

Minako found him after dinner. In the minutes after his shower – his private showers, as it had become, rather than a communal bath – and in the momentary solitude where Yuuri allowed himself to take a beat, to gather himself, and prepare for any proceeding struggles that might arise for rest of the evening, she found him.

Minako didn't knock on his door. She'd never been one much for propriety. She did remain on the threshold, however, leaning against the doorframe and peering into Yuuri's room. She was so utterly silent that Yuuri didn't even realise she was there until she spoke.

"Do you still hate me?"

Sitting on the end of his bed, staring down at his hands, Yuuri was squeezing each of his fingers. They were tingling strangely, and had been for most of the afternoon. He didn't know why but something… for some reason they didn't feel quite right. Not bad, nor painful, but the same kind of disconnectedness that followed pins and needles. Yuuri hadn't been able to work out what it was, but…

At Minako's voice, he startled and twisted to glance over his shoulder towards the door. "Minako-san? Sorry, I… I didn't hear you…" He trailed off as her words registered. "What?"

Minako regarded him quietly. Her arms were folded across her chest as she'd taken to standing more often of late, as though in protestation, for such protest was what usually rose to her lips when Yuuri saw her.

"You're exercising too much," she'd said. "At the state you're in, it will do more damage than good to your body, regardless of how much you think you need to train."

"You need to eat more. And no, before you say anything, I'm not talking about eating crap, so don't freak out. Normal food. Healthy food, even. Your whole body will be out of whack, so it's better to take it slow."

"Sit down after a meal. No, it doesn't matter if you're finished; you should sit down for at least half an hour. No going to bathrooms or going for a run or anything."

Minako didn't speak such words were others could hear her. She didn't speak cruelly either, nor overly demandingly. Her requests were posed, presented, and requested just short of ordering in a way that still felt unavoidable.

Because Minako knew. Yuuri hadn't even suspected just how much she'd known, but she did. She'd mentioned weeks before that she'd seen 'such things' in her dancing days, but Yuuri hadn't fully appreciated what she'd meant.

Minako knew about the exercising, and she voiced her suspicions that Yuuri was doing more than he let on. Yuuri hadn't told anyone that he woke before dawn to run down the beach, but she speculated anyway.

She knew about how little he'd been eating, or at least suspected, too. She wasn't fooled when he said he wasn't hungry, that he felt unwell, or when he pushed his food around his plate in an effort to disguise the fact that he didn't take a bite.

Most of all, however, she knew when Yuuri rid himself of what little he'd been all but forced into eating. _No going to the bathroom straight after meals. No sudden disappearances._ Minako knew, and each time she revealed her understanding, Yuuri was nearly overwhelmed by the exhausting mixture of panic and angry indignation that he couldn't quite understand the nature of.

Minako knew, she insisted, and she enforced. And maybe Yuuri did feel angry with her, because she was standing as a block in the road to where he needed to go. It was as though she'd seen it all before – which she likely had. It was as though she knew each trick that Yuuri hadn't even noticed he'd been enacting – which she likely did, too.

"Eat, don't just fiddle."

"Walk, don't run."

"I'll time you in the bathroom if I have to. I don't care if it's an invasion of privacy."

The pervasive hand, the flat insistence, and her company at dinner – Minako was abruptly and confronting in her investment with a problem that Yuuri didn't consider problematic. Victor might remain at his side every moment of the day that he could, almost as though he feared to leave him alone, and Yurio might have swallowed many of his usual objections in place of others, but Minako was the one who demanded change.

Maybe Yuuri had hated her a little bit. He'd known her for so long, had cared for her like a sister, but she didn't see that what she was doing was hurting him. She didn't understand that her insistence wasn't helping but debilitating him.

Or at least Yuuri _thought_ he'd hated her. That suspicion died as soon as Minako suggested it.

Wariness and a longing for solitude faded just a little at her words. Yuuri slowly turned back to regarding his hands, felt his shoulders slump, and didn't care if Minako saw. With Victor, it was different, because Victor carried the pain as though it were his own. Minako denied letting it touch her out of sheer, stubborn necessity.

"I don't hate you, Minako-san," he said heavily. "I've never hated you."

The slight scuffle of Minako's steps was the only sign that she'd entered his room at all. Yuuri didn't glance towards her, didn't raise his gaze, until she stopped directly before him. When he did, it took a physical effort for Yuuri to raise his chin.

Minako's face was expressionless but for a slight crease between her eyebrows. She'd dropped her arms from their fold, however, and their absence made her just a little less imposing. It wasn't much, considering who she was, but Yuuri appreciated her leniency. Or at least he did until she spoke again.

"I don't think you should go back to Russia next week."

Yuuri felt his eyes widen, his mouth falling open. "What?"

"You're not well, Yuuri. I think you should stay at home."

"Minako-san –"

"You don't seem to realise what kind of mess you've gotten yourself into, do you?" Minako overrode him, shaking her head slightly. "And it doesn't matter if you hate me for saying it, because I'll say it again and again, as many times as I need to."

"Minako-san, I'm not –"

"You're not well, Yuuri."

"I'm not –"

"Anyone would be able to tell just by looking at you. You're not well."

Yuuri was shaking his head fervently. Not well? 'Not well' suggested illness. 'Not well' insinuated a disease, or an injury. Yuuri wasn't unwell. He was acting as befit his needs, and despite what Minako said, and how Victor sometimes glanced at him so sadly, or that he'd caught Yurio staring at him over the dinner table with an expression of uncomprehending loss, he knew he wasn't.

There was no feeling of unwell besides the self-induced nausea. There was no lethargy besides the expected tiredness of waking up early every morning, and even if it did weigh him down increasingly heavily, it was only to be expected. There was no fever, and the only aches and pains Yuuri felt were in his head after a long day, or his throat after he'd managed to slip away at the earliest opportunity to bring up the contents of his stomach.

Yuuri wasn't sick. He knew that. But Minako didn't agree, and Yuuri doubted objecting would solve anything. He wouldn't fight that but instead stood his ground for what he needed.

"I have to go back to Saint Petersburg," Yuuri said. "I have to train."

"Victor would stay here if you –"

"I'm not going to make him do that," he overrode her. "He needs to train under his coach too. He's already been here for too long."

Minako's brow creased further. "There are more important things than –"

"No, Minako-san, there's not," Yuuri said, speaking over her again. "Not to me."

This time, Minako fell silent. Her hands twitched at her sides as though threatening to rise and cross over her chest once more, but she withheld. Their mutual silence hung in the air between them, and Yuuri allowed it to remain untouched. He spoke the truth, so Minako should hear it. Yuuri couldn't give up his training, and he wouldn't ask Victor to, either.

Finally, Minako spoke, and it was in such a low voice that Yuuri could barely hear her. "Even if it's at the risk of your health? This sort of thing kills people, you know."

Yuuri blinked, startled from his resolution. "What?"

"I've seen it before, Yuuri," Minako continued, her voice silencing despite its quietness. "It's damaging, and not just physically. Mentally, too. It wears you down, and it's more than just the exercising, and the purging, and what kind of messed up fuckery you put your body through."

Yuuri flinched at the harshness of her words, but she didn't slow. "It fucks up everything. Muscle deterioration, cardiac arrhythmia, gastric ruptures, to say nothing of shredding your throat and mouth to pieces." She shook her head and, though firmly, there was a more grief than anger to the gesture. Yuuri was stupefied by it. "It doesn't take all that much, you know. I don't want to see it happen to you."

Yuuri couldn't find his voice. He struggled, and when he finally grasped it, it came out choked. "I don't think I'm the same as that, Minako-san. Not like… not like the people you used to dance with."

"You think so?" Minako said quietly. "Then tell me when the last time you threw up was."

It had been barely minutes ago. Out of necessity, as he'd taken to doing, Yuuri had forced himself to throw up in the shower. It worked, because no one questioned that he was spending a few minutes alone, and the distinct, telling smell was easily washed away. Yuuri was surprised he hadn't discovered such a opportune moment earlier.

Even so, despite the satisfaction of his discovery and the relief of purging, guilt flooded through him beneath Minako's steady gaze. Yuuri couldn't reply, his chin tucking once more, but she continued.

"How much do you still throw up every day?"

Yuuri swallowed. His throat still ached, burned raw.

"How much do you even eat at breakfast, lunch, and dinner? I'd wager it's less than everyone thinks."

Of course it was. The sheer amount requested of Yuuri by unspoken suggestion was ridiculous. He couldn't possibly eat so much, and spent most of every meal avoiding doing just that. It was necessary. It was what he had to do. Still, guilt welled even further.

Minako sighed. "I'm not saying this to be cruel, Yuuri."

"I know," he managed, barely whispering.

"I'm just worried."

"I… I know."

"You understand that's why I had to ban you from the studio, right? It was out of necessity, not spite."

Yuuri squeezed his eyes closed. That exchange, occurring weeks before, still stung. Even if Minako claimed that it wouldn't make all that much of a difference to his training in the long run, the yawning hole in the centre of Yuuri's regime gaped like a slack-jawed skeleton. Minako had done him the kindness of keeping her forbiddance from any and everyone, but it still hurt.

Yuuri couldn't speak in reply this time, or at least not to that. "Then you know why I have to go back to Russia, right? We understand each other that well, don't we, Minako-san?"

It was a cruelty in itself, Yuuri knew. He was choosing his battle, and this was the climatic clash, even if Minako didn't realise it. Or maybe she did, because her sigh was even heavier this time. When Yuuri opened his eyes and peered up at her, her frown had twisted into something else entirely. He wasn't quite sure what it was.

"I thought as much," she murmured, more to herself than to Yuuri. Then she shook her head. "That's okay. I'll work with that. I'll just come with you."

Yuuri blinked, stunned as though slapped in the face once more, and could only stare as Minako nodded decisively, turned, and started towards the door. She was going to…? She really intended to…?

"You're –? Are you going to babysit me?" Yuuri asked, a little harshly but more pained than indignant. More ashamed than angry.

"No," Minako said quietly. He'd never seen her so solemn in her life. "I'll just be there to catch you if you fall."

Then she left his room, the doorway yawningly empty in her absence. Yuuri stared after her for a long time. He couldn't change – knew he couldn't change – at least for the moment. There was too much depending upon him pushing himself, bettering himself, ensuring that he didn't slide back to who he'd been when the speculations of his retirement had arisen in that magazine.

But he would try. Maybe. When he could. Just not yet. Regardless of Minako's concerns, he'd only been immersing himself as such for the past few months. Nothing so drastic could arise in such a short time.

Not yet. Yuuri might try, but not yet.

* * *

~|Week 4|~

* * *

On the last day of August, Yuuri fell.

Falling itself wasn't particularly uncommon for a figure skater. If anything, should a skater not fall or at least fumble at least once a practice, it was considered a remarkable feat.

That day was different, however, because Yuuri fell. He fell once, then again, then kept falling. It helped that most of the time it was when he was alone, but even so.

Sleeplessness hadn't been doing him any favours. Yuuri's rigorous training regime hadn't altered terribly but for Minako's forbiddance from her studio, but he felt its weight upon his limbs heavily nonetheless. He'd had a throbbing headache for days that simply wouldn't go away, his stomach was in a constant state of strained discomfort, and the distress of purging had mounted with each coveted attempt.

It was bad. It was bad because Yuuri had to sneak to do it, and he hated himself for it. It was bad because he had to do it more often with the frequency of his eating under Minako's eye, and bad because he had to wait for longer before he could bring it back up. It was especially bad because this – this thing that he'd been good at when necessity had requested it – had become harder. It took more effort. It demanded longer, because sometimes Yuuri couldn't bring anything up for minutes on end, and sometimes his fingers didn't seem to be able to reach far enough to trigger any kind of response at all.

It was bad. It was _horrible_. Yuuri still managed, but the accompanying distress was enough to have him just short of bursting and constantly high-strung. He could feel it, as though his nerves were pulled into a taut wire that would snap at just a hint more pressure.

Couple that with the unexpected bout of vertigo he'd been afflicted with all morning, and Yuuri acknowledged, if only to himself, that he was having a bad day. And that was even before the first time he tripped.

It happened when he was running on the beach, feet sinking into the sand that seemed to cling especially hard to his shoes that morning. He'd risen before dawn, as he often did, because Victor hadn't withdrawn his request to watch the sunrise with him every day.

The second fall happened on their morning walk. Makkachin's unwavering excitement got the better of him, and he stumbled in his enthusiasm into the back of Yuuri's legs. Yuuri fell, caught himself, and was able to disguise the slip as dropping to his knees before Makkachin for a sloppy, vaguely apologetic kiss. Victor hadn't noticed at first, and when he did it was only to see what Yuuri had hoped he would and smile fondly before offering Yuuri a hand to climb to standing.

The third time happened on the steps at the gym. The fourth when Yuuri had been heaving himself to his feet in the bathroom after lunch. The fifth time he'd tripped on nothing – his own feet, his own foolishness – and all but face-planted in the middle of the street.

Victor didn't smile and chide him teasingly in that instance. Yurio didn't roll his eyes, click his tongue, and call him clumsy. In Yuuri's opinion, their silence made it worse. It was 'weird', as Yurio had said weeks before, and weird wasn't a good thing. It wasn't good to be noticed.

At the ice rink, practice was a disaster. Dizziness had never been a problem for Yuuri before, and he'd had a head for it from years of dancing, of skating, of merging the two into a combined entity. But that day was bad, just as each day leading up to it had grown increasingly so. Yuuri could hardly land a jump. His was tripping through footwork that should have been simple for him. Even the very ice itself seemed to skitter out from beneath him, seemed slicker than usual, and standing had never been so hard.

Overcoming dizziness was a product of practice. That day, however, Yuuri's practice seemed to have abandoned him.

His taut nerves quivered on the brink of collapse all afternoon. It wasn't truly a surprise when they snapped, though Yuuri hated that they did. He hated how it happened just as much.

"You should know your limits, idiot," Yurio said, his voice echoing across the rink from the opposite wall. "Otherwise you'll hurt yourself."

A part of Yuuri heard his words and understood where they came from. That Yurio was referring to his own injury. That his voice hadn't even been heated, despite the addition of his derogatory term. But the greater part, the part that throbbed beneath a headache, and the nausea in Yuuri's belly, and the weight of failure that constricted his chest as tightly as his heavy breathing did – that part objected and reared its hackles.

Yuuri wasn't letting himself go, but he seemed to be going anyway.

"Maybe you should spend less time watching other people and more time worrying about yourself, Yurio," he snapped, shooting a glare towards him. "If you don't like seeing it, then don't watch."

Yurio froze. Or he froze more where he'd already stopped. All except for his eyes, that was, which widened slightly, his mouth which parted just a little in blatant surprise. But it was less Yurio's response – or lack thereof – and more Victor's that immediately tore away any frustration that Yuuri felt.

Victor knew. He knew Yuuri was insecure in his skating. He knew that he lived to skate and how much it hurt him to fumble even more than Yurio did. He knew that Yuuri panicked, that he spoke irrationally and almost cruelly when he was frustrated to the point of fear, even more than Minako did. Victor, who could smile so brightly, could tease for such fumbling but knew when to stop, and who could pick out Yuuri's fear almost before Yuuri perceived it himself these days…

He saw that. Yuuri knew he did from a glance. Across the rink where he stood, Victor's eyebrows crinkled, his lips thinned, and face tightened. He didn't quite leap across the ice, racing like a speed skater, but he did draw slowly towards Yuuri. There was no accusation in his expression, no disappointment, and in many ways that was worse. It felt far, far worse than the sadness, the helplessness, that welled in his eyes.

 _I'm hurting him_ , Yuuri thought, and that very thought speared through him like a javelin. _I'm hurting him, and I'm distracting him, and it's not – it's not fair. He shouldn't be weighed down. He should be practicing, and smiling, and laughing because… because this isn't going to last forever and…_

"Yuuri," Victor said quietly, and there was so much spoken in that single word that it seemed to coalesce in the air.

Yuuri was familiar with the feeling of nausea. Once, it had been merely induced by fear, or by the occasional bout of too much drinking, but now he knew it more intimately. The weight of a meal in his belly, the sickening rise of food in his throat, the roil of vomit as he heaved and retched until nothing else could come out. Yuuri knew that feeling.

This was just a little different, but Yuuri was reacting before he could even consider that difference. Spinning in place, he leapt and skidded towards the gate in the boards, threw himself through, and nearly tripped in his speed. Victor's cried, "Yuuri!" and even Yurio's surprised, "What-?" didn't slow him.

 _Out. I have to get out. I have to get_ it _all out_.

Purging was good for the food, helped with the necessary, but it also helped to escape the bad thoughts. And Yuuri needed that right now. He needed it desperately.

He didn't know if Victor or Yurio followed him. Yuuri didn't glance back, didn't slow in his headlong flight, could barely even pause to think –

Which was probably why he fell. Stupidity, pure need, made a fool of him, and he didn't even pause to step into a pair of skate guards, let alone slip out of his skates entirely. The rubber floors surrounding the rink didn't extend all the way to the bathroom.

Yuuri slipped.

He fell.

His legs, already trembling with something more than exhaustion, skittered and crumbled.

The crack of knees, of elbows, of his head upon the hard, tiled floor – it resounded through Yuuri's body like a struck gong. Dizziness didn't even cover it. A moment of blackness, then blurriness, that a wild whirling, and the nausea that clamped Yuuri's stomach in a tight fist abruptly gave a sharp tug.

It hurt. Everything hurt. His head, his legs, every muscle, the burn in his oesophagus. The sudden second hand that seized his chest and squeezed until he couldn't breathe. Thumping throbbed in his ears, a roaring sound swallowed every other whisper, and Yuuri –

He didn't try to stand. He couldn't. The last time Yuuri fell that day, he didn't get back up.


	8. October

_Beep._

_Beep._

_Beep._

Sounds filtered in first. Slow, regular. Immediate and distant, too. The hum of a machine, the regular beeping, the short inhalations that Yuuri only realised were his own when he felt his chest protest the simple act of breathing.

Then came the smell. Sharp. Sterile. Cold, somehow.

The press of crisp linens on his arms, the inadequate softness of a pillow behind his head, the weight of blankets upon his legs – Yuuri felt it all at the same moment that his body properly awakened and moaned in protest.

His legs hurt. His head throbbed. There was distinct discomfort in his arm, right in the crook of his elbow, and he could feel what he knew were bruises upon his knees. But it was his chest that hurt the most. It ached as though it had been crushed in a vice.

Yuuri knew he was in hospital. He might not remember how he got there, but he had been partly aware when he'd arrived. He recalled the dizzying chaos around him, the hollow voices, the weight of an arm around his shoulders, holding him up at his waist, and then the heavy thud as he was all but dropped onto a bed.

What happened afterwards was a blur, and not because he'd lost his glasses somewhere throughout the mania. Yuuri couldn't remember. He couldn't… there were bits and pieces, but overall he couldn't quite…

With a deeper inhalation that tugged a little more painfully at his chest, Yuuri struggled to open his eyes. They hurt too, he decided, then was sure of it when he was met by a glare from overhead lights. Groggy detachedness recognised that it must be gloomy, that the lights were from a distant source rather than the dimmed globes above him, but he didn't care. It was too abusive.

The bed spread before him, the lump of his legs beneath standard-issue blankets visible. Beyond that, the railing at the foot of the bed, and beyond that, a white curtain drawn in a half circle. It was an unexpected provision of privacy that Yuuri noticed and filed away without fully registering.

What he did notice was the chair at his side. He noticed that it wasn't empty. He noticed, would have known even without turning towards him, that Victor was the one who filled it.

He was still in his training gear, but that was all that remained the same as last time Yuuri had seen him. His hair was a limp mess. His shoulders were slumped, elbows resting upon his knees, and his head was bowed. He looked utterly defeated, and Yuuri wanted nothing more in that moment than to tell him to stop thinking whatever was that was making him so sad.

Victor felt him. He felt his gaze, must have, or perhaps he heard Yuuri's breath catch slightly. His head rose, and it hurt to see him so ashen, his eyes so heavy, the lines on his brow deepened in worry. Even worse was when he met Yuuri's gaze and his own slowly welled with tears.

He didn't say anything. Neither did Yuuri, for he couldn't think of a single word, but Victor chose not to speak too. Instead, he reached a hand towards Yuuri and wrapped his fingers around where Yuuri's own rested, limp and heavy upon the blankets.

Victor grasped. He held. He squeezed so tightly it hurt. And then a sob burst from him, and the tears fell, and his shoulders began to shake as though he couldn't stop them.

It was the worst sight Yuuri had ever seen.

* * *

"Cardiac arrhythmia and heart failure aren't unheard of in these kind of situations. Especially when left untreated and unmonitored."

The doctor spoke with a clinically sympathetic tone. She was an older woman, her hair pulled back tightly and her face prematurely lined. The set of her coat was a little worn, as though she was reaching the end of her shift, and she held her clipboard before her with the casual air of long familiarity.

Yuuri noticed all of that only detachedly. He stared at the woman, at Dr. Ogata, and knew his mouth hung open. He knew, and he didn't care, because…

"We're lucky you were admitted when you were," she continued. "Speculating of what could have happened doesn't help anyone, but suffice it to say, speed is always the best approach when cardiovascular emergencies occur."

The words were spoken, but Yuuri couldn't understand them. Heart failure? Arrhythmia? But… that was surely ridiculous. He might be drifting towards the later end of his skating career, but he wasn't _that_ old. And he wasn't unwell.

Yuuri's hand - his free hand – rose unconsciously to his chest. It still ached a little, but that didn't mean… it didn't mean that…

"Such symptoms often accompany long term or severe eating disorders. Katsuki-san, how long have you suffered from anorexia nervosa, and how much of that time have you partaken of bulimic urges?"

Yuuri flinched. That wasn't – No, that wasn't right. He shook his head fiercely, and he didn't think the pain in his chest was wholly because of whatever had put him in the hospital bed in the first place. "I… I don't have –"

The doctor flickered her gaze from him to Minako where she stood on the opposite side of Yuuri's bed. She and Victor, because Victor hadn't moved from his seat for hours, were the only two in the little self-contained bubble of privacy afforded by the hospital curtains. Yuuri was glad they were both there. When Dr. Ogata had arrived and begun to ask questions, he'd barely been able to speak.

Minako helped him out. Again, as she always seemed to. She spared a glance for Yuuri, and he thought it might have been slightly apologetic, but replied bluntly nonetheless. "He's undiagnosed."

Ogata's forehead creased. "Undiagnosed?"

"Yes. But if I were to hazard a guess, I'd speculate at least a few months."

Ogata nodded slowly, placing her pen to the clipboards and scratching a note. "Relatively fast, then."

"Unfortunately," Minako said. When she glanced towards Yuuri once more, her expression was almost as shadowed, almost as pained and sorrowful, as Victor's was.

Ogata spoke more. In her clinical, efficient tone that she somehow managed to embed with unshakeable sympathy, she spoke words that made no sense to Yuuri. About staying in hospital for a time to be monitored. About avoiding undue stress, and enduring bed rest until he was deemed hale enough for otherwise. About treatment, and recovery, and something called re-feeding syndrome that had Yuuri cringing before he could help himself and sinking back into the pillows behind him.

His chest hurt, and it was as much psychological pain as otherwise. He knew it was foolish, but the thought of eating when he'd been working so hard to shake the weight, of losing precious days of training, shook him to his core. His shoulders hunched, he dropped his chin, but Ogata's words rung hollowly and pervasively in his ears. He would have curled entirely upon himself, into himself, but…

But Victor didn't let go of his hand. Since Yuuri had awoken, he'd been rendered one hand less, his fingers trapped in Victor's grasp. When Yuuri shrunk beneath Ogata's words, he reached for Yuuri's other hand in silent request. It was all Yuuri could do to clasp it and hold on as though it would do any actual good.

Ogata saw. She noticed Yuuri's distress with what he could only assume was a doctor's observant eye, and she understood. "We'll leave it at that for today, I think," she said quietly, folding her clipboard against her chest. "Try to calm down and avoid any stressors."

 _Avoid stressors?_ Yuuri thought, briefly closing his eyes. How could he avoid something that was nagging away in his head, echoing with Ogata's orders? He wanted to get out – out of the bed, out of the hospital, away from all of it. He wanted to go back to his training and his routine, back to the ice and to working on his program, because it _still_ wasn't ironed of its creases and championships started in a matter of weeks, and – and –

The doctor left with a parting word that the nurses would follow her to take some tests, and silence yawned in her wake. Victor didn't speak, but Yuuri didn't expect him to. Not after his muteness since Yuuri had awoken. Minako remained similarly close-lipped, however, and Yuuri was left to turn towards those 'stressors' that gnawed in his mind and wrestle them into submission long enough to take a breath that didn't rattle with trembles.

"What…?" he attempted, but his voice faltered. With a convulsive swallow, he turned his gaze up towards Minako. "What exactly did you tell them, Minako-san?"

Minako didn't answer immediately. Her gaze, still fastened upon the stilled curtains at the point of the doctor's departure, blinked slowly. She took a breath that was almost a sigh. Then, with a slow turn, she drew her gaze towards Yuuri. What Yuuri saw in her solemn stare made it starkly apparent why she was at his bedside at all.

Minako had known. She was the one who had known what was happening, despite how hard Yuuri had tried to keep it hidden. She'd known even without his saying anything. From what Yuuri had been told, not his parents, his sister, Yurio, nor anyone else had been allowed in for the past twelve hours that he'd been all but trapped in a hospital bed and 'under observation'. Why _Minako_ was…

It wasn't such a mystery anymore. Yuuri knew it was wrong of him to feel betrayed, that whatever she might have told the doctors was likely necessary, but he felt it anyway.

"I told them what I saw, Yuuri," Minako said. "And what I assumed. Nothing more."

Yuuri throat convulsed once more, and words were nearly impossible. "You told them that…? You told them about –?"

"I didn't diagnose you, if that's what you're asking. That was all them. They told me – us – almost as soon as they saw you, you know. Right alongside a firm slap on the wrist for not bringing you to someone's attention before."

Yuuri shook his head slowly, then with more fervour. "But I'm not – I don't have –"

"Don't try that," Minako said, and though she overrode him with an order, her voice lacked any heat or firmness. "You know you nearly died, right? That's how bad it was, Yuuri. You nearly died."

It was like being struck over the face with an open palm. Yuuri was hunched in the bed, all but folded upon himself, but he was still left reeling. That was… surely it wasn't that bad. Surely it hadn't been…

Yuuri's gaze dropped to his lap. To the hospital bed. To his chest that still ached with each heartbeat, and then to Victor at his side, clinging to both of Yuuri's hands as though he was afraid to let go. He raised his chin when Yuuri glanced towards him, but he still didn't speak. It was the quietest Yuuri had ever seen him.

The moment he raised Yuuri's hands to his lips, however, pressing a kiss to his knuckles as he always did – the gesture, its ferocity, and its desperation, seemed to speak loudly enough.

Yuuri had hurt him. He'd hurt Minako, too, and he knew his parents would be hurt, and his sister, and each of his friends that had known. Yurio, too, because though they would always have their competitiveness and their differences, he knew his friendship with Yurio was reciprocated.

But it was the worst that he'd hurt Victor. Yuuri had never wanted that. Never, and yet he'd done it so often of late, so incessantly. The pain was sketched out in every line of Victor's tense, exhausted frame. It made Yuuri's heart ache for an entirely different reason.

Yuuri didn't want to stop what he was doing, _couldn't_ stop, because it had become a necessity for him. And yet he knew he had to, if for no other reason than to wipe clear the wrenching pain that had sunken its teeth into Victor's face. More even that he'd supposedly come so close to an edge he hadn't even seen, a disaster he still couldn't quite believe, that much he knew. Yuuri couldn't do that to Victor.

"What do I do?" he asked, turning slowly back to Minako. He felt lost, like a dinghy cast adrift, and Minako might know little more than he did but she _did_ know.

Minako was pale. She was clearly weary herself, and the lines of her face bespoke her own pain. But she replied at Yuuri's behest.

"You'll be kept here for a while, and stuck in your bed at first," she said. "It's to make sure you're alright. To get you back on your feet and eating again, and to restore the balance in your body. Electrolytes or something, Ogata-san said."

She didn't slow at Yuuri's instinctive flinch once more, but the way she drew her gaze to the side said she hadn't missed it. "Days, weeks, who knows. You'll likely be kept in long enough to try and break the cycle, though that's probably a bit of wishful thinking on the doctors' part. Then after that…"

She trailed off, almost as if she was at a loss, but Yuuri heard the unspoken speculations nonetheless. It wouldn't stop there. There would be more – more fixing, more changing, more climbing back onto a track that Yuuri had struggled so hard to throw himself off. What would that mean? What would it entail? He didn't know, but the thought was almost as daunting as what Minako _had_ told him.

"What about…?" The thought arose unbidden in his throat, and Yuuri clutched at Victor's hands as tightly as his own were held. _This_ he needed to know, because _this_ was important. "What about championships? I can't… I can't stay here if I'm going to…"

Minako's face tightened in a wince of her own. She didn't scold him, however, and in many ways that made it worse. It was almost as bad as the crushing hold Victor's fingers abruptly tightened into. "I don't think that's possible at the moment, Yuuri," Minako said. "Not this time. There are more important things."

There were. Yuuri knew that. Dragging his gaze back to meet Victor's, he saw that. And yet the sheer weight of the blow Minako's words struck him with felt like a battering ram to the chest. The ache was so profound, throbbing out to every end of his body, that Yuuri was rendered speechless. Was this what heart failure felt like? It surely must have been close.

When Victor bowed his head, Yuuri saw the dribble of a tear snake down his cheek that for some reason Yuuri couldn't manage himself. Victor knew. He knew without being told that it cost the world. He didn't loosen his hold on Yuuri for even a second in the echoing, heartbroken silence that followed.

* * *

"I'm scared."

Yuuri hadn't turned away from Victor, but he refocused his detached attention at his words. It was a vague shock, because throughout the entire day that Yuuri had been confined to the hospital bed, Victor hadn't spoken. He'd barely moved, and it was only in the past hour that he'd leant across the bed and promptly dropped his head into Yuuri's lap, face turned to peer up at him.

They were alone. Minako had left, returning only briefly with intermittent guests. Yuuri's mother had cried, and for the first time in years, Yuuri had seen his father without his placid smile. Mari looked frazzled as he'd never known she could become, and Yuuko had been resolutely biting her lip against tears as Nishigori stood like a silent, sorrowful statue at her shoulder. He hadn't said a word himself before he'd left but to finally murmur, "Don't scare us like that again, Yuuri."

His words echoed the sentiment of all who'd come before him. The bubble of curtained privacy echoed with it in their absence.

Yuuri felt tired. Exhausted, even, and heartsore for what was more than an apparent clinical heart disturbance. He still didn't quite understand, couldn't quite comprehend it, and it was scary to even consider such a possibility. Yuuri didn't _feel_ sick, so how could he have supposedly knocked so recently upon Death's door?

When Victor spoke, it wasn't expected. His voice was low, a murmur that Yuuri felt through his legs where Victor still rested his head. He fiddled idly with one of Yuuri's hands that he hadn't let out of his hold since he'd first clasped it.

 _I'm scared_ , he'd said. Not that he _had_ been, but that he was. Yuuri heard the distinction even if Victor hadn't consciously planted it.

Swallowing thickly, Yuuri raised his free hand to rest atop Victor's head. The cannula in the crook of his elbow, hooked to the IV, jostled with a vaguely painful twinge, but Yuuri ignored it. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"I've never been so scared in my life," Victor continued just as quietly. "Of anything."

"I'm…"

"You were going to leave me." Victor's hand tightened painfully once more, but Yuuri didn't protest. "You nearly did."

Swallowing didn't seem to be doing any good, but Yuuri tried again anyway. "I'm sorry, I… I didn't mean to. I wasn't –"

"I know," Victor said over him. "And that's what makes it so scary." He turned his head until his face was pressed into the blankets, muffling the words that followed. "You always try to take yourself away from me without ever seeming to realise it."

"I…" Yuuri trailed off. He knew what Victor referred to. Years ago, at that fated Grand Prix, Yuuri had told Victor that he didn't want him to be his coach anymore. It had pained him so fiercely to say the words, but it had been necessary. Victor remaining as his coach had felt like pinning the wings of a bird, and Yuuri couldn't do that. Not to Victor.

He'd been wrong. He hadn't realised how much his suggestion would hurt Victor. That time Victor had cried, too.

This time felt worse, and then worse again at the weight behind Victor's words. The first time, it had been for Victor's own good, a misguided hope that Yuuri had believed would make Victor happy. But this time…

He still couldn't believe it. Yuuri still couldn't rationalise the thought that he had 'nearly died'. It seemed impossible, inconceivable, and the tightness and pain that still persisted in his chest didn't really refute that belief. But the doctors had told him it was close, and Minako had quietly explained, and Victor had cried as though his own heart had been brutally torn out.

Yuuri had nearly left him. Again. He hadn't meant to, but it was what he'd done. What a horrible twist of fate it was; Yuuri had always felt that, should either of them leave, it would be Victor. He was the better skater, the fiercer competitor, the one with more fame and committed adoration of his fans. _Surely_ it would be him first.

How had Yuuri taken a turn and messed up so badly not once but twice?

"I made a mistake," Yuuri said, his voice cracking. He closed his eyes, grasping blindly for composure that eluded him. "I was… stupid, I was –" His breath caught.

Victor's head shifted in his lap, and when Yuuri opened his eyes, he was turned to face him once more. "Why did you do it?" he asked quietly, weariness dragging at his words. "Why would you start to do something like that?"

To think of the start… When _had_ been the start? At what point had Yuuri's training twisted into something supposedly damaging? He didn't know, could barely believe it of himself, but reality was gradually settling upon him with the harsh truth. Yuuri really had messed up.

"I was just –" he began, and his voice cracked once more enough to draw a pause. "I was just trying to be better and – and to make myself better than I was. I –"

Yuuri's breath hitched once more, and a sudden bout of fierce burning in his eyes demanded attention. Yuuri raised his free hand from Victor's head, burying his face in his palm.

"Better?" Victor echoed. "How could you be…?"

"And now it's pointless," Yuuri said. He heard his voice and could hardly believe it was his own for the way it warbled, nearly wailing. "If it's true and I – that I can't compete this year, then it's all for… Victor, I messed up, and it was all for _nothing_."

Victor sat up. Yuuri could feel him lean across the bed towards him, his fingers curling around the hand that covered Yuuri's face. He pressed both of Yuuri's hands between his own, cupping them as he met Yuuri's gaze with solemn intentness.

"So?" he said simply.

"So?" Yuuri choked. "So I wanted to keep skating forever, and I can't –"

"Just this once, Yuuri," Victor said, speaking over him. "It's just this once."

"You know that's not true. A figure skater's career has a limited lifespan, Victor. How many more years do you think I've got left?"

That was when the tears finally began to fall, and Yuuri could do nothing to stop them. Everything hurt, but it was in a different kind of hurt to bumps and bruises. It was different to the ache in his chest, the pain in his belly when he ate, or the burn in his throat when he purged. This kind of hurt ached, and pained, and burned, but it was in a different way.

"You have to do it for me, okay?" Yuuri sobbed, squeezing his eyes closed in a vein attempt to suppress the outpouring of torrential tears. "If I – if I can't skate, then you… Victor you have to go and do it for me, and –"

"Are you kidding?" Victor interrupted him, low and fierce. "I'm not going anywhere."

Yuuri opened his eyes. He could hardly see through their blurriness, but he thought he saw tears in Victor's eyes too. "What?"

"I'm not going to compete if it's not with you, Yuuri."

Near hysteria welled within Yuuri, and he clutched at Victor's hands in return. "N-no! No, you have to –"

"I won't," Victor said, shaking his head.

"Please, you have to –"

"Yuuri, I don't want to skate anymore if it's not with you. Please don't make me."

Words and pleas died in Yuuri's throat, but the sobs continued. He stuttered, breath hitching, and warm tears painted his cheeks in a sodden, snotty mess. Victor only continued to hold his hands, cradling them as though they were the most precious thing in the world, and that gentleness was so painful in its utter sincerity.

"… so sorry… I'm so sorry for – for being such an idiot."

Yuuri didn't even realise he was speaking at first, hadn't intended to, until the words deciphered themselves in his ears. "I'm so, so sorry for messing up, Victor, I –"

Then he broke off into sobs that were too heavy, too strong, to allow even a blubbering attempt at words.

The bed wasn't really big enough for two people, but that didn't matter. Or at least Victor apparently didn't care, regardless of what the protesting squeaks of the legs declared. As Yuuri dissolved into tears, he rose from his seat, climbing into the bed next to him, and Yuuri didn't care what anyone would say or what they would think. He latched his arms around Victor's waist, pressed his face against his chest.

He could feel Victor shaking against him, felt the wetness of more tears upon his skin as Victor pressed his damp cheek against Yuuri's brow. Funnily enough, it didn't help that two shared the pain and loss, though having someone to cling to…

Maybe that helped. Just a little.

* * *

For the first time in years, neither Victor Nikiforov nor Yuuri Katsuki stood in the line up for the international senior males division. The figure skating world was alive in a frenzied flurry of speculations and assumptions, murmured words and irrational gossip. The articles that flooded sports magazines and even some newspapers were rife with them.

This time, Yuuri didn't read any of it.


	9. December

Acquiring tickets for the finals of the Grand Prix was a challenge unto itself. Yuuri hadn't been on the spectating end for years; it was almost a novel experience.

The stadium that hosted that year was at expansive as any before. Echoingly high ceilings, grandstands that stretched in incremental incline, the network of athlete corridors and locker rooms outside of public reach, and the rink itself, blindingly white and glowing with promise. Even breathing the air itself thrummed a particular kind of energy through Yuuri's veins.

He felt aching longing as much as he did joy.

Few enough people besides coaches and the occasional approved family member were allowed to skirt around the back. Reporters tried, but besides being permitted for their designated interviews, even they were withheld. Yuuri didn't pause as he slipped from the entrance into the burrows of back corridors. At his side, Victor didn't slow in step either.

"It feels strange," Yuuri murmured, his words nearly lost beneath the hubbub of enthusiastic voices from audience and competitors alike.

Victor glanced at him sidelong. "Strange in a good or a bad way?"

Yuuri only shrugged, huddling into his coat a little more. Winter had descended, and despite the cluster of warm bodies throughout the stadium, he felt the chill. It was almost offset by the murmur of excitement that tingled through him, but the longing did its part to stopper the feeling from rising too greatly.

Reaching a hand out, Yuuri latched onto Victor's gloved fingers. Victor clasped his back without comment, squeezing briefly. "You definitely said you called ahead, didn't you?"

Victor cocked his head, frowning. "Called ahead?"

Yuuri's heart skipped a beat. "Victor, if we're not supposed to be here -"

"Don't worry, don't worry," Victor said, breaking into a wide smile a moment later. "Honestly, such a worrywart…"

He shook his head, raising their intertwined hands and pressing his lips to the back of Yuuri's knuckles in that way he always did. His smile shrunk slightly, softly, when he lowered their clasp. "I think Yurio would be affronted if we didn't at least come for the finals."

"Did you call him, too?"

"He called _me_ , actually. And three times today already."

Yuuri cocked his head. "What did he say?"

"That I'd better come," Victor said, holding up a finger. He raised a second as he continued. "That I owe him for being a failure of a coach who hasn't been there all season, and," a third finger, "that he's going to put up a spontaneous protest and demand to delay his program until we get here."

"I don't think that's how 'spontaneous' quite works," Yuuri said.

Victor's lips twitched in a widening of his smile once more. "Yurio isn't one much for making sense a lot of the time, especially when he's demanding."

That much Yuuri knew, but he didn't roll his eyes in exasperation. He didn't shake his head at the foolishness, or condescend about the diva status that Yurio had apparently embraced. He saw beyond that to the words and feelings that Yurio wouldn't admit if it killed him.

 _He wants us to be here to see him_ _compete. And after all but abandoning him all season, we – no,_ I _owe him at least that much._

It wasn't Victor's fault after all. Yurio might make the demands of him, but at the end of the day, it was Yuuri's fault that Victor hadn't been there to coach him. It was his fault they both hadn't competed at all. With that thought, Yuuri tightened his grasp on Victor's hand and started into the pool of manic attendants.

A voice called something out as an overhead announcement. Another shouted something in a language that Yuuri recognised but couldn't understand. He edged around a cluster of uniform-clad individuals, hugging the wall, and Victor followed beside him.

There were faces, familiar and new. There was the equally familiar mayhem preceding competition, as much from the staff as the competitors. Another announcement, warbling and skewed through the sound system, a corridor dotted with bodies and then, a corner later…

Yuuri heard it.

"Nikiforov… Is that Victor Nikiforov?"

"Really? Is that really -?"

"And isn't that Yuuri Katsuki?"

The murmurs weren't overloud, but Yuuri heard them nonetheless. He swallowed back the upwelling of nervousness, the tangy taste that tingled at the back of his throat, and ignored them. Victor must have felt his unease anyway, however, because he leant into Yuuri's side and murmured in his ear.

"Should we just get it over with?" he asked.

Yuuri glanced towards him. "Eh _?_ "

Victor tilted his head questioningly before, sidling up next to Yuuri to link their arms as well as their hands, he half turned to the corridor of sidelong, watchful eyes, raising a hand and his voice alongside it. "Good luck in the competition today, everyone! Yuuri and I will be cheering for you!"

His announcement did it. It served to draw the eyes, to vanquish the speculations, and kick-started a frantic exchange of not quite whispers.

Yuuri winced. He hunched his shoulders, shrinking slightly before the attention, because he might be used to publicity as a competitor, but this was different. This was far worse, and even more so after his time all but hiding. He felt like he'd been shunted onto a pedestal to be prodded with questions and studied for flaws.

"Victor," Yuuri hissed, leaning towards him. "Why did you have to _do_ that?"

Victor beamed at him like a delighted child. "Well, it gets the awkwardness out of the way and announces our arrival, doesn't it?"

"We could have been less demonstrative about it."

"Why?"

"Because it's embarrassing!"

Victor flapped a dismissive hand, entirely ignoring the onlooking eyes that surrounded them with increasing density. "It's only embarrassing for you. This way, we can attend to the important people rather than ducking our heads and avoiding notice."

Yuuri could have told Victor of the illogical natural of his explanation. He could have told him that 'getting it over with' wasn't an alternate route to 'avoid notice as much as possible'. But before he could manage, a delighted exclamation of, "Yuuri!" dragged his attention over his shoulder.

Yuuri turned just in time to see Phichit flying towards him. He moved with remarkable speed considering he already wore his skates, but that was all Yuuri had time to notice before he found himself abruptly caught in his friend's smothering embrace.

A stunned moment was all that endured before Yuuri shook sense into himself. He wrapped a tentative arm around him in return. "Hi, Phichit," he murmured, his voice muffled in Phichit's shoulder.

Phichit took half a step away from him, planting his hands on Yuuri's shoulders. His face was shining with glowing brightness, his eyes with a different kind of shine, and he smiled with wavering with delight as he met Yuuri's gaze. "I can't believe you made it! It wouldn't have been the same if you and Victor weren't here."

Yuuri offered a small smile that was as much as he could manage. "Thanks."

Phichit shook his head, as though disregarding the gratitude. "No, thank _you_. I'm so, so sorry I haven't come to visit you, Yuuri, even though I didn't find out what, ah…" He paused awkwardly before continuing. "About anything until only a few weeks ago. If I'd known, I definitely would have come sooner."

"Phichit," Yuuri began, "you didn't need to –"

"When I heard you were sitting out for this championships, I tried calling," Phichit rushed on, gushing with renewed speed, "but I don't think it got through, and that was when Celestino told me. I don't know how he knew – did you tell him? – but he was the one who explained everything."

"Phichit –"

"And I _told_ him that I was going to go and see you, but he said I shouldn't, and that you wouldn't want to be overwhelmed by crazy friends coming to visit and shower you with flowers or whatnot, but I should have just come! I'm really sorry, I should have just come and –"

"Phichit, it's alright," Yuuri interrupted, finally managing to break through Phichit's unexpected bout of babbling. "Really. I wouldn't have expected you to come when you should have been training. I swear, I'm relieved you didn't."

Phichit paused in his gushing, meeting Yuuri with a wavering stare. His gaze shuttered slightly, and though his face still glowed, there was an uncharacteristic solemnity to his expression. "Are you alright, Yuuri? You're… you _are_ alright now, aren't you?"

The crowd flowed like a single living entity around them, undulating and roiling. Murmurs and whispers of observers were met by outbursts of those further away and not distracted by Victor's announcement. At Yuuri's side still, as always, and still holding Yuuri's hand, Victor was half turned towards a clutch of unfamiliar faces, smiling and speaking animatedly in what Yuuri could only imagine was answer to their own questions that gushed as thickly as Phichit's words.

For the moment, Victor took the brunt of the attention, so Yuuri turned his own back to Phichit. He considered his friend's question briefly, and then he smiled.

Yuuri wouldn't tell Phichit how he really was. He wouldn't explain. That was a length he couldn't go to, and as much for himself as to spare his friend the unnecessary weightiness of over-sharing. Yuuri had experienced far too much of a bereavement of his privacy in recent months, both willingly and out of necessity.

He wouldn't tell Phichit of the weeks he spent in hospital, of those first days where he'd been confined to his bed.

He wouldn't talk about the wealth of doctor's visits, the meetings with psychologists and psychiatrists.

Yuuri wouldn't explain how he'd been taught of things he'd never considered relevant to himself, how he'd been diagnosed with something that seemed too far removed from his reality that it still struck him as impossible some days.

The recovery and the struggle against the horror of reversing all the effort Yuuri had put into his training and regime over the months. The slips and slides, the failures and the successes that didn't feel like successes, because though the doctor's told him they were a good thing, they felt _so_ _bad_.

Yuuri couldn't explain that he hated himself for the pain he still put Victor through everyday. He couldn't tell Phichit that he still struggled with every meal, and sometimes that struggle fell through and he would find himself on his knees in the bathroom once more. The restrictions on his exercise, the monitoring of his diet, the health checks and doctor's visits, and the scheduling of regular therapy…

Yuuri couldn't tell Phichit his story. Phichit didn't deserve that kind of brutal honesty, and it was worse because it wasn't really just 'a story'. Yuuri had been living it for the past eight months of his life, was still living it, and would continue to live it, if the doctors' prognoses held any validity.

But Yuuri did smile. He shrugged aside the worry that Phichit offered him, and he nodded. "I'm better, Phichit," he said, because that much at least was true. "I'm much better."

The smile and relief that spread across Phichit's face was worth speaking as he did. Before he could get another word in, however, a sharp whip-crack of a voice sliced through the air. "Oi! Victor! Yuuri! It's about time you got here."

Yuuri hadn't seen Yurio in months, but he would always recognise his voice. If nothing else, the presumptuous demand was unmistakeable.

What followed was a party of sorts between competitors drawn by the excitement of the crowd, those new and old, friends and simply acquaintances. It was like falling into step with an old family again, and though Yuuri felt more than a little removed from them, was starkly aware of the absence of his own skates, the comforting weight of those familiar people was like a soothing balm.

Phichit stationed himself at Yuuri's side, bubbling with nervous excitement as much as sincere enthusiasm for the competition set to start barely an hour hence. Yurio, as haughty in his own nervousness as ever, drilled Victor with complaints and reprimands that only left Victor smiling serenely and shrugging them aside like a gossamer cloak that weighed next to nothing. Yurio's eye visibly twitched in frustration, and he turned to Yuuri with a huff and a click of his tongue.

"Keep him in line, Yuuri," he said. "Have him do his job properly." Then he paused, peered at Yuuri in a moment of jittery awkwardness, before muttering, "And make sure you watch me properly this time, alright? You have to make up for all the ones you've missed this year already."

Yuuri couldn't have withheld his smile had he wanted to. He nodded in ready agreement. _"Un. Ganbatte_ , Yurio."

Yurio accepted his words with a curt nod, lingered for a moment with a quietly regarding stare before disappearing.

Otabek Altin made a brief appearance, passing through and as silently focused as ever. In contrast, Leo de la Iglesia bubbled with animated excitement, pausing at Phichit's side and gushing with excitement for his first finals.

Others that Yuuri recognised – JJ Leroy in all of his raucous exuberance, and Christophe Giacometti in what many had dubbed his 'final year' – and interspersed between them were more faces, those that Yuuri had met the year before and some that he hadn't. It was likely more Victor's presence than Yuuri's that they were drawn like moths to a flame, the scent of excitement and nerves thick in the air, but Yuuri greeted them and wished them luck nonetheless.

When a curt call over the sound system murmured once more in words that Yuuri barely caught, the skaters, friends and competitors alike, broke apart and dispersed with the speed of fish darting for cover. Yurio appeared briefly once more to extract a promise that Yuuri and Victor both would _definitely_ be watching him, or he wouldn't forgive them, but Phichit was the last to leave.

He walked backwards, waving frantically in farewell. "Good luck, Phichit," Yuuri called after him over the rising clamour of attendants, competitors, and teams. "I'll be cheering for you!"

"This time," Phichit called back. "Cheer for me this time, Yuuri, because you'll be back on the ice next time I see you, right?"

Yuuri's throat tightened, stoppering any chance of a reply. He managed a nod, blinking back the upwelling tingle in his eyes, and Phichit beamed even more brightly before turning on his heel. He all but skipped down the corridor before disappearing.

Yuuri hadn't realised he was squeezing Victor's arm where it was still linked in his own until Victor squeezed in return. His gaze was intent as he met Yuuri's, but it brightened with a smile after barely a moment.

"Come on, then," he said jovially. "We have a job to do."

"You mean watching Yurio?" Yuuri asked.

Victor nodded sharply, decisively. " _Da_. I'll bet if we do it together we'd drown out the crowds. Yurio would be sure to hear us, even when he's on the ice."

Yuuri doubted that. He knew what it was like to skate, to lose himself in the moment, and to barely hear the roar of the crowd and their gasps or cheers as he flubbed or landed a flawless sequence. But he nodded nonetheless and started down the corridor, tugging Victor in step behind him.

* * *

The stadium felt bigger when it was empty. Far bigger.

The distant sound of cleaners echoed from the hallways, clattering with emptied rubbish bins and the sweeping of discarded litter. There were the groans and thuds of the building itself as it settled for the evening, comfortably offsetting the buzz of the electric lights overhead. Around the grandstand, vacated seats regarded the empty rink as though awaiting one final competitor, despite the competition ending hours before.

Most people didn't linger for so long afterwards. Most people who'd stepped out to celebrate with their friends wouldn't have returned after hours. Most people likely wouldn't have been allowed in at all in that time, but then…

Most people weren't Yuuri and Victor. Yuuri didn't like abusing the perks of being a renowned figure skater, but he was glad for that liberty at least.

"He was incredible," Yuuri murmured, the first words he'd spoken since they'd arrived. His voice seemed to echo in the emptiness despite its lowness.

"He was," Victor agreed just as quietly from his side. "Don't let him hear you say it anymore, though, or he'll get a big head."

Yuuri smiled faintly. "He already knows it. Besides, there's nothing wrong with congratulating someone multiple times. And I think Yurio is less confident sometimes than he pretends to be."

"It that so?" Victor drew out his words contemplatively before sighing expansively. "Why do the people that have the greatest reason for confidence always seem to lack it?"

"Not all of them do," Yuuri replied.

"Ah, yes. Well, we can't always be the JJ Leroy's of the world."

"He's deserving of his silver medal, even if he is a little bit cocky. But I was actually referring to you."

Yuuri didn't glance towards Victor, but he knew he turned his gaze to regard him. A pause hung between them before Victor spoke. "I know," he said quietly. "And I was talking about you."

"I know."

Another distant clatter was met by the call of a voice, and after a moment a quieter one replied. Yuuri couldn't make out the words, or maybe he just wouldn't have understood the language they were in. Not that it mattered. He hardly had the headspace to consider cleaners when his attention was so flooded with the ice spread clean and inviting before him.

It was tempting. Beckoning. That beckoning temptation was almost impossible to deny.

Yuuri regretted so much. He regretted what a mess he'd made of himself in the past months, and hated that, even if he might be growing to accept the reality of his 'unwell-ness', that acceptance wasn't the end of it. He knew he still struggled, and would likely continue to be challenged for a long time, if his prognosis was any indication.

Yuuri was happy for Yurio, who had swept in and snatched the gold once more, and delighted for Phichit, who had placed for the first time that year. He was even happy for JJ, though his appreciation was more of a professional kind. But despite that, Yuuri regretted that he hadn't been a part of it himself.

Even more than that, he regretted that he'd held Victor back as well.

Staring down at the ice, slumping slightly in his seat with his elbows falling onto his knees, Yuuri sighed himself. "I'm sorry," he said, for what must have been the millionth time in the past months.

"Don't," Victor predictably replied.

"I mean it."

"I thought we agreed that you weren't supposed to apologise anymore."

"You told me not to. I didn't agree."

Victor grunted. A sidelong glance to where he sat with his elbows similarly propped on his knees, Yuuri regarded him as Victor frowned, pursed his lips, then smoothed his expression. "Stop regretting, I think," he said simply.

"I might if it was such an easy thing to do," Yuuri said.

"It is easy."

"Actually, it's not."

"No, it is," Victor said, almost speaking over Yuuri's words. "You just need to look to the opportunities on the horizon rather than the mistakes of the past." He quirked an eyebrow at Yuuri, a small smile playing across his lips. "And try to stop being such a worrywart."

Yuuri smiled himself, if a little ruefully. "I think it's a part of my DNA to be a nervous wreck. Not so easy to get rid of, I don't think." He drew his gaze back out to the rink and silence enveloped them once more.

It was only when Victor reached out and took Yuuri's hand that he had the presence of mind to drag his attention away again. Victor's expression was soft, but his grip was unyielding. He did that a lot these days; it was almost as though he was afraid to let go sometimes.

"Next time," Victor said quietly. "We'll be on the ice, just as we always have been, and everything will be okay."

"But this year –" Yuuri's voice caught. "I'm sorry, Victor. When there are so little chances left, I…"

Victor didn't reprimand him this time, but he still shook his head. "Eventually there'll come a time when we won't be able to compete as we can now, Yuuri, but its not yet."

"But –"

"And even when it does come, that will be okay. It'll be okay." Victor's smile brightened in a way that Yuuri would never be able to manage speaking such words. "But we'll still skate, yes? You and me?"

Yuuri couldn't say anything to that, so he didn't. He only nodded, and when Victor straightened and reached for the pair of duffel bags resting between them, Yuuri reached for his own and drew his skates from within. It wasn't the first time he'd been on the ice in recent months, not even close, but it felt like the beginning of something for some reason.

They slipped on their skates.

They descended the steps in clinks and thuds that sounded overloud in the emptiness.

And when Yuuri stepped out onto the ice with Victor at his side… It wasn't quite a competition, but it was all he could cling to at that moment, and that made it enough.

For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you so, so much to all of my lovely readers, with special thanks to those who have both been here with me from the very start and those who have commented even just the once. I can't thank you enough for your support throughout this story - it holds a bit of a personal touch, and that always makes it a bit scary to really dive into.
> 
> But I hope you enjoyed it, and thank you again. Bye!


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